Of Love and Loss
by thegirlinthedeathfrisbee
Summary: It's not typical but it goes right in order this time around: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note**: Hello, hello! Welcome to another adventure in Ali-writes-a-chapter-fic! This one... well, this is a something. And I'll admit now, it's going to be a painful something. Not reichenbach is the good news. Not any nicer is the bad. But, the other good news is that it'll be short. So the pain won't drag on for too long? Heh. I feel like I've given the whole thing away.

Welp, here, have a prologue and I hope you continue reading.

* * *

According to Elizabeth Kübler-Ross, humanity partakes of five different emotional stages when grieving—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. The assumption of the "Five Stages of Grief" is that one must participate in them in the order given: the being will first feel denial, than anger, and so on until each stage has come, settled, and passed onto the next. People assume that each and every stage must be eventually felt, and that it will happen in order, and that is the status quo of each human being.

Most people do not understand that this is not what Elizabeth Kübler-Ross stated.

Elizabeth Kübler-Ross stated that it varies, from person to person. One may go through each step in accordance, one may skip some steps altogether. Others may never experience bargaining. Others still may hold at the bargaining stage for much longer. One might find themselves experiencing depression before anger, denial after that. Human reaction to grief, she felt, was as unique as each person who came to feel it.

But some do.

Some go right in order, the order of grief. Some sit in their rooms and question the entire situation, how it happened, assume that it didn't, not really. They tire of questions and grasp at emotion, throw vases and hit things with bats, or scream at the top of their lungs until they're hoarse. Some people then try to make deals, tell the other "No, anything to take it back." and fall into a depression when it doesn't work. And eventually, they get over it. They accept what they cannot change, and do not attempt to change the accepted.

Most people don't follow this.

But some? Yes, well... Some people do.


	2. Denial

Harry's flat is much smaller than John thinks it'll be. A lot more dull, as well. No pictures on the walls, second-hand furniture, tatty and used far too much to be comfortable. The television has been left on in her absence, a footie match recorded from earlier silently playing out on the smaller-than-he-imagined screen. The carpets are dingy, brown and clotted in corners no one ever thinks to clean up. It's dreary, really. There are three empty wine bottles sitting upon the coffee table, and a glass sits beside one. A little puddle of burgundy sits at the bottom of it, the last drop she didn't bother with. Garbage—loads of garbage crumpled up in little balls, papers and crisp bags and take away foils. It smells, of mold and every floors cooking.

But it's a temporary flat, she'd said. Just for now, until she could gather up enough cash for something better. Always bouncing about, looking for something better. Harry hasn't been the same since she left Clara. No surprise there.

"You can set your things wherever." Harry tells him, offhandedly, as though her older brother often winds up in her flat. He doesn't. John avoids Harry's flats like the plague, prefers Mike Stamford's home to hers. But Mike had guests, couldn't have another, wife was already quite frazzled as it is. And it was urgent, couldn't stay. Needed out, quickly. John swallows and settles the one bag he's packed onto the floor beside his feet, pushes it absently toward the settee with his toes. Harry's in the kitchen, pulling another bottle (way off the wagon now) of wine and popping it open. "Fancy a drink?" she asks, kindly. "I've got beers as well, if you want one." She fusses with the top for a moment.

John doesn't reply, watches Harry attempt to pry the cork from the bottle. He sighs as he sticks out his hand, palm up, and gestures with his fingers. She hesitates as she places it within his hand, and it takes him no less than ten seconds to pry it open with a loud, satisfying _pop. _"I'll have one." he says after a moment.

Harry doesn't bother attempting to open the long-necked bottle of beer for him. She pulls it from the fridge and hands it to him just as is, passes by without another word of acknowledgment as she makes for the couch. He doesn't move immediately, rummages through an equally unkempt kitchen to find a bottle opener.

He's mostly emotionless, really. The anger has died down, has dissolved into a numb play by play of every word said and every action taken. The beer in his hand grows warm without ever touching his lips. Harry's bottle goes half empty before either realize they're in the room. "He was a twat." Harry comments into the silence, and it causes John to startle as his head snaps to meet hers. "That bloke—he was a twat. Still is, I imagine." she mutters, looking to the screen. It's supposed to be encouraging, John knows. That he's done the right thing, that she approves of his choice in leaving. It doesn't help. It makes him sort of sick, a roil in his stomach that threatens an upheaval all over the stained table before them. "Where's the toilet?" he replies instead, just in case.

She gives a nod in the general direction of 'the rest of the flat' but says no more. He exhales, rolls his eyes. Sets the beer upon the table and moves past her as best he can, attempting not to disrupt the habitat.

The bathroom is small. It's at least clean though, everything properly arranged and settled. Towels are hung up nice. Tub is white. Mirrors clean and the washbasin free of clutter. It's a relief from the sitting room. John wonders how long he can sit in the bathroom before Harry starts to become suspicious. He flings on the tap and leans heavily against the wall, arms bracketing the small mirror. He rests his chin against his chest and breathes deeply. No, this is for the best, he tells himself.

(Maybe it's not real.)

Of course it's real, it had to be done.

(Maybe it's not over.)

It has to be over. He can't—there's no way.

(It can't be over.)

It is. It is, just—just let it happen.

(But love—)

But nothing. He chose his path. And this was where it ended.

John's jaw clenches and he licks his lips. He doesn't look at his reflection, would rather not know how bad he must look for Harry to be so kind—in her own way. But he does and yes. Yes, there it is. He looks like Hell. He looks worse than Hell. He looks like he's just left the love of his life—and that's got to be worse than anything.

The water is running cool. He cups his hands beneath the stream and lets it pool in his palms, dips forward and splashes it against his face. It feels like—awakening, almost. Except that he doesn't feel tired, not physically. Emotionally, mentally, certainly. He wishes there was a way to do this to the mind—to force cold water over his emotions and wake them up, alert them. Refresh them. But then he'd be angry again, or upset, or—maybe it isn't a good idea.

Harry is still seated on the sofa. Her legs are tucked up beneath her and her chin is rested upon a propped elbow. She glances up to John and her brows furrow delicately. His face is still wet. He doesn't say anything about it, flops back into his seat and goes back to a focused stare at the screen. Neither of them speak. Harry finishes her bottle with a ceremonious clinking of bottle neck to glass lip and sighs as she takes another sip. She opens her mouth to speak and he steels himself to whatever may be ready to come out, in case it's more words of encouragement or questions about details or anything. But she doesn't. She merely informs him, "You'll be sleeping here. I haven't got a li-lo."

"That's fine."

"This is one of the many reasons, you know."

John's brows crease in confusion and he turns to look at her once again. He tries to consider what other reasons he might be sleeping on her sofa, according to her, but nothing seems to come up. He opens his mouth to ask just as she goes on, "Men are shitheads." Harry states matter-of-factly. Oh, John looks away, back to the telly. "Men have always been shitheads," she goes on, taking another drink from her glass, "And they always will be."

"Right."

"You'd know. You _are _one after all."

"Helpful, Harry. Very helpful."

She's had a few more than he knows about. John begins wondering if the other three bottles are from earlier. His guess is starting to become yes. No wonder he drove—at least she was being responsible back. "I shouldn't even be saying that, really," she goes on as though he hasn't spoken. "It's the sort of blokes like you that end up making it harder for women like _me _to have a go at anyone."

Oh. "I don't know how you expect me to reply to that."

Harry sighs. "I don't." She turns her head and finally looks to him. She's a little more than gone and John can see it. He's hoping this will be her final word on whatever she's looking to say before she goes off to bed. He'd like to lay in the dark and spend a moment to think on his own. "I'm only—look," She sighs again, as though she's got the heaviest of weights sitting upon her chest. "He's not the only good-looking chap in the world, okay? He's just another man in a sea of men that you can choose from."

John shifts, a little uncomfortable. "I'm not actually—"

Harry pins him with a look. No, he's not actually. John had only ever fallen for one man, had never even considered any other men for such a relationship. Couldn't, really. Wasn't even possible. But he lets her pin him with that look of hers, the one that says she knows better. She doesn't, never could. Not in this case. "He's not the only one in the world, is all I'm saying." Harry finally finishes her thought, watches John carefully.

But all John can think of is his voice, informing him: " _-The only one in the world._ "

And that doesn't help matters.

"Listen, it's late. You've had a long day." Harry exhales, unfolding her legs and letting them flop to the floor. "I'll grab a blanket, a pillow, you know." She groans as she stands, setting her glass upon the table—another little puddle of blood red sitting at the bottom—and makes for the hallway. John barely registers the quiet shuffle of feet and the padding of blanket hitting cushion. "You'll be all right?" she asks.

He looks at her, blank faced. What sort of stupid question is that?

And her reply is silent and similar: what a stupid question indeed.

She doesn't speak another word as she turns back for her room. John listens in silence as she shuts the door, a quiet click of the simple mechanisms blocking her from him. And that's a relief, actually. Finally he's allowed in his own head space, no one chattering beside him, attempting to make him 'feel better' with words of encouragement. Good.

John goes about fairly routinely, shutting off the lights and putting himself together. Wash face, brush teeth, change into long-unworn pyjamas (used to sleeping nude, uncomfortable in clothing), settle "bed". The television leaves a faint glow in the darkness, a ghost of light left on for too long. The window lets in too much light—the moon shines bright and the street lamps cast a hazy yellow filter to the room. It's like a spotlight, focused upon John's face. Like someone standing just outside, investigating him.

Observing him.

It's day one. Night one, really. John is only human. He loves Sherlock. No, loved. Past tense. No, still loves. Still aches for him, still clings to something old as though it may be reborn and brought new again. But this is for the best, it is. Eventually, it won't feel so raw. Eventually, he'll be all right. Besides, Harry's right. There are other people in the world. Tons of them—the world is teeming with people John has never met. And maybe now, he can settle down. Maybe now, he can put the need for adrenaline and fighting behind him and find a nice person, marry, have kids and a house and a dog.

Sherlock Holmes is not the only one in the world.

(" _I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world_ .")

Yes, okay. John can concede on that. Sherlock's voice comes to him from the dark as he yanks his blanket over his head, shuts his eyes tight. Sherlock _is _the only consulting detective in the world. He's the only one who can do as Sherlock does, the only one the Yard will come to in times of crisis, when they're out of their depth (" _—which is always—"). _Yes, the only consulting detective in the world. One of a kind.

(" _—The only one in the world._ ")

Sherlock Holmes. John fell in love with Sherlock Holmes not too soon after moving in with him. He's brilliant and arrogant and hilarious and a right shit, when he wants to be (which is always). John had gone against everything in him, every thought he'd ever had about what he wanted in a person when he did that. Sherlock Holmes, the ultimate exception.

(The only one in the world.)

Stop that.

(Maybe it doesn't have to be over.)

It does, stop attempting to spur this on.

(Maybe this isn't the end.)

It has to be. It has to be the end. There's no more room for this.

(Maybe it's an overreaction.)

Shut up and go to sleep.

* * *

_"I'm done."_

_"You're done. What, you're leaving?"_

_"I can't do this anymore. I'm exhau—"_

_"You're actually leaving."_

_"I'm not—I can't. This is—"_

_"Fine."_

_"Fine?"_

_"Get out."_

_"Excuse you?"_

_"Go on."_

_"Fine."_

_"Good. I work better alone."_

_"Then allow me to make this easier on you."_

_"Should've done it sooner."_

Sherlock's eyes fly open and 221B remains just as silent as it had been prior. He swallows down—disappointment. Yes, that's what that is. A little (large) flutter (smashing) of disappointment has made home in his throat and he swallows again, tries to eviscerate it. Not so easy.

John hasn't returned.

He flips back his dressing gown sleeve and checks the watch upon his wrist—10:24. No, it's still early. Of course, John will have probably gone to the pub. He'll have called up Mike Stamford and decided to have a lager, cool his own head. He was being irrational, after all. Spouting off about how he was "done", how he'd "had enough", how he was "leaving." Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes. John's tendencies toward theatrics were daunting sometimes, irritating mostly. As though he couldn't merely hold a conversation. Or better yet, couldn't simply _listen._

However, perhaps Sherlock is at fault as well. Maybe a little. There had been that thing—what had it been? Some sort of—holiday or something. Sherlock's brows furrow and he tries to recall whatever unimportant date it was, but he comes up blank. Not John's birthday, that's passed. Not his own, that too has passed. No pagan holidays to speak of, or religious ones for that matter. Then what? He shakes his head. It bothers him more than he may normally allowed. John is a bad influence.

None the less.

Sherlock busies himself in thought until eleven. He should be working on this case (triple homicide, thee different locations, exact same time, exact same scene at each—very specific, meticulous, _interesting._ ) but he's distracted. John's hostilities keep flying through his head at break neck speeds, as though they've got little better to do than bother him. It's fine. John will return soon, they'll have a discussion about the importance of date-keeping. They'll hug, and John will kiss him, and perhaps _then _he'll be less distracted.

He flips the kettle on. Tea will make everything better. Tea always makes everything better. It's the English way, after all. And he remembers how John takes his tea. That'll be an advantage for him, in this argument they'll surely have. John will say that he never remembers details, and Sherlock will counter with the tea. Perfectly steeped, just the right amount of milk, sugar stirred in completely. John will be unable to deny that Sherlock's memory of his preference is impeccable. John will have no argument to make against him then, obviously.

Warm and steaming, the mug gets settled upon the little side table beside John's chair. Yes, John's chair. He'll be back and sitting in it soon, smelling of lager and Stamford's pungent aftershave. He'll look weary and ready for bed, and he might even make the argument that he'd prefer it. But Sherlock would sit him down, and they would talk (or perhaps John would listen) and it'd be settled before bed.

But the door doesn't move, not fast enough for Sherlock.

Oh, of course he's dragging it out. He wants Sherlock to suffer a bit, or he thinks Sherlock _will _suffer if he stays out later than usual (he's right). Sherlock rolls his shoulders in agitation and stands in a single fluid motion. He whips up his violin and make for the window.

Baker Street is normal. Little foot traffic, miles of cars parked bumper-to-bumper along the curbs. Cabs making their way to and fro. The shops have closed—yes, hours ago, of course. Sherlock huffs as he scans the streets, waits for the familiar John-shaped figure to emerge from the corner. Something like regret tugs at him as he watches—should've been around when he was leaving. Shouldn't have locked self in room. He shakes his head and opens the curtains properly, settles his violin against his shoulder and tucks his chin against the rest. He hesitates before dropping the bow to the strings, fingers poised against the board.

The problem here is not what was said, but what wasn't. John had refused to tell Sherlock of what he'd done wrong, what had caused the uproar. Went on about "Go on and figure it out, make a deduction." Oh, that always rubbed Sherlock the wrong way. And John knew that. The exact reason he even _said _such things was to irritate Sherlock. To coerce him into argument. That was _childish_ , egging on heated discussions.

Sherlock had attempted to make a deduction. Not out loud, not this time. He watched John's face and he listened (or tried, really) and not much came about. Ideas, yes. They always did. Several popping up rapid fire, none of them connecting with enough of the evidence.

And then after all that, John was weary. Aged at least five years in the time of the argument, or so it seemed. Deeper lines, swollen bags beneath the eyes, downward frown. Exhaustion. And then:

( _"I'm done.")_

That two-worded sentence buzzes about Sherlock's head as he plays absently. First clean notes. Then dissonant notes. Then some sort of amalgamation of the two. Composing—not writing it down, no need. Just random draws of the bow against the string, fingers dancing over the fingerboard in whichever way feels comfortable.

( _"I'm done."_ )

Are you, John? What are you done with?

(" _I can't do this anymore."_ )

What is it that you can't do?

( _"This is—I can't—"_ )

Sherlock swallows, finishes off whatever little note lays trembling against his bow. He pauses, eyes roaming quickly over the panes of glass before him. He'd replied to each statement. Had asked questions—no, made inquisitive statements. _You're leaving? _Yes, he was walking out. He seemed upset. Walking out and getting air was the norm for John. But Sherlock stood there, brows furrowed and face contorted in shock. Yes, John was leaving. He was making for his room. He was heading up the stairs and Sherlock was watching.

He drops the bow to his side, and the violin follows after. Sherlock turns back toward the sitting room, expecting John to be seated in his chair, tucked into his cup of tea. He'd be sheepish, admit he'd been there for hours, had been listening, didn't want to disturb.

But no. No, what Sherlock gets is John's chair in the exact same state it had been. The tea has gone cold. The flat is still empty, sans himself. But really, he can't count himself a presence. No, that's not right. John should've been back by now. He should've been sitting in that chair there, watching perhaps, waiting. Sherlock settles his violin into his chair and flips back the sleeve of his dressing gown once again.

His face steels as he notes the time—2:27.

His heart hammers, bangs against his ribs and twists and contorts unnaturally. His jaw clenches and he draws his eyes back to the door. Nothing has changed. No one has come in, no one has come out. The flat is filled with silence that weighs more than himself, weighs more than the combination of John and him combined. Could possibly weigh more than the entirety of the flat itself. It sits on his ears and rings inside his head and jumbles already-too-jumbled thoughts. His face falls and he stares at the door, wills it to open, wills John to come through looking exhausted and perhaps a bit inebriated. His fists clench and he licks his lips and his brain screams nothing more than _open, open, open, openopenopen._

It doesn't.

Sherlock's unsure of how long he stares at the door. He's unsure of how long he spends begging John to come through it. It doesn't happen either way, so measuring the time seems useless. He blinks, comes from something like a daze and looks back to the chair once again. Still empty. Still cold. Still nothing. That's—not typical behaviour.

He takes a deep breath and presses his lips into a thin line. Perhaps John was more upset than he'd reasoned. Perhaps Stamford was talking him up into a larger frenzy than he'd been in. Perhaps he was simply taking more time to settle, to cool, to gather his thoughts for a proper argument. Yes, John could be quite logical about his temper. He could rationalise that—depending upon the amount of emotional fluxes he was still encountering—he'd need the evening to settle. He was at Stamford's for the evening, sleeping on the lilo until tomorrow. Or, rather, later that day. Of course.

Sherlock nods to himself. Yes, it'll be fine. Everything will look better in the morning.

He carries this thought with him as he meanders toward his room. Or their room. Not fully, not completely. A few of John's things were moved there. A slow process, amalgamating the two. But John had shifted clothing. Sherlock had made room in his drawers. Pants and trousers and shirts and jumpers had found place amongst Sherlock's belongings, the jar of coins John had kept to saving was now sitting upon Sherlock's dresser. And it's encouraging, sharing space. Sherlock finds he doesn't mind it nearly as much as he should have.

It'll all look better in the morning, he reminds himself.

He slips from his dressing gown and hangs it beside his others. He unbuttons and unzips and unlatches and unties, until he's down to nothing. The bedclothes are still thrown back from the morning before. The bed rarely gets made—too much work for little purpose. Sherlock releases a quiet sigh as he slides himself beneath the sheets, beneath the blanket. His head rests against the pillow and he shuts out the light.

But no, he can't sleep.

There's a case and there's John, and they're both fighting for purchase in his head. He'd almost forgotten about the case, being distracted by this _argument_ , this silly little _whatever-this-is_ keeping him from the work. And normally he wouldn't even _be _in bed, ready to spend the next three days awake to figure out this curious case of threes. For once, however, he needed the sleep. Needed to settle his head and allow this whole thing to blow over. Fix the root of the problem, go back to the larger situation at hand. It makes sense, somewhere in that boggled head of his.

But he can't sleep.

He's used to John now. Has become acquainted with wrapping his limbs around him. Sleeping doesn't come as easily if his nose isn't buried somewhere in John's skin—his scent lulls him, warm and clean and safe. As though a scent could embody safety. It does though, in such a case. Wraps around Sherlock like a security blanket, tucked in around the edges and curves of his body, cocooned in protection.

These sheets, they share too much. They put Sherlock and John together, and now it's no longer just one scent or the other, it's both. A mixture of the two, which on any other night would make no difference at all. But that night, when Sherlock is desperate for the next morning to simply _get there_ , so that he may finally get back to the way things are _supposed _to be, it doesn't work. They smell too much of himself, not enough of John. Even the pillow is all wrong, doesn't hold John's shampoo strong enough to settle him.

In the dark, Sherlock stands and pads his way to the dresser. John's drawers are neatly organized, all the jumpers he takes to wearing regularly folded up and settled neatly inside. He heaves a heavy sigh as he takes out a bundle of three and makes his way back to the bed. He's not desperate, of course not. He just needs to sleep. He doesn't already miss John's body, his warmth. He's grown accustom to certain routines and has no patience for breaking it.

Besides, John will return in the morning. No need to break habit for an evening.

He takes John's pillow and wraps it up in one of the jumpers. The other two he places beneath his head. It's a moment of weakness, he can recognize this. And he feels weaker and weaker the tighter he clings to that pillow, the harder he breathes against it. But it's John, in some form or another, and that's enough for the time being. Even if he will be back in the morning.

(He won't be back.)

Of course he will. Don't be absurd.

(He's done. Chased off.)

No, he was done with the argument—he left just after. Obvious.

(Use your head, look at the evidence.)

There is no evidence as of yet.

(He's gone.)

He'll return. He always returns.

And when Sherlock awakes that morning, the flat is still empty. No coffee being made, no body beside him. Those jumpers no longer smell of John, just an unwashed version of himself. He untangles himself from all three and tosses them to the floor.

And he wonders if maybe, just maybe, he regrets having the correct assumption for once.


	3. Anger

It's been a week.

John isn't sure what he expected. Sherlock had told him to go. Of course he wouldn't come running after him. Sherlock isn't the type, wouldn't be the one to come crawling back. And that's good, John reminds himself, because even if he did, John would say no. He'd tell him the same thing he told him the night of—that this isn't going to work, that he's tired of being second best, that he's no longer going to sit around and be Sherlock's side-piece to his marriage (work, always the work).

But one little text would've been nice. A little hint that John hadn't wasted his time.

(Of course it was wasted, Sherlock was never a relationship person.)

He did well, for a while.

(For a while. It was always bound to come to this.)

Just thought he cared a bit more is all.

(What, because he said he did? What did he know.)

John tries to eradicate the thoughts from his head, tries to shove them aside and tell them to bugger off, but they stick and they repeat. He didn't care, doesn't care. Couldn't care any less if he tried. Of course John would be the one to care too much. He's the one that leaves, that packs a bag and says its done and _he's _the one sitting around waiting for a call. That's not okay. That's not healthy. No, he has to finish this. Sherlock doesn't care, doesn't want to fight for it. Neither does he. It's for the best, it is.

He has to tell himself this daily. And today he believes it.

He's worked himself up that day. Sherlock doesn't care, didn't care, never did. He wasted John's time, let him think that making an exception was okay, that changing his entire belief system was fine. He flipped John's entire world on a whim and didn't even care to stick around to adapt to the righting of everything, the arsehole. For all John knows, he's just another experiment.

(Don't be ridiculous, not an experiment.)

Could've been.

(No, no. Not _quite _that important.)

Thanks, thanks for that.

(More like a piece of furniture. Useful when needed but easy to ignore.)

Oh God.

Oh God, that's exactly what John is. A piece of furniture. Another chair in the sitting room, stepped on sometimes, curled into on others, only when necessary, only when functional. It spurs this horrid, sickly feeling on harder. Until he's not breathing properly, until he's seeing red and green all mixed into one ugly palette before his eyes. When Harry returns from wherever she'd been—clinking bags in hand—he jumps up from the seat and practically tears across the small room for her. "Need your car." He states firmly.

"What? Why?" Harry asks, looking him over incredulously.

John takes a deep breath, swallows around yelling out all those thoughts in his head (doesn't care, didn't care, arm chair) and tilts his chin up. "I've still got stuff at Baker Street, obviously," He replies evenly, "I need to go fetch it."

"And if he's there? Have you talked to him?"

Harry being rational only seems to upset him more, so he just gives her a look. One that declares he could've give any less of a shit if Sherlock is there or if he's gone or if he's got someone else there, he's going _now _and that's that. She gets it, it seems, as she gives a quiet, muttered, "All right, no need to get your knickers twisted," and hands off her keys. John takes a deep breath and gives her a nod, a quiet thank you as he passes her and heads out the door.

John's not particularly a fan of driving Harry's '96 Astra. All the gauges are wonky and it smells—like beer and cat piss. And Harry seems to drag the rubbish from flat to car, as the back is littered with similar foils and plastic bags. It seems as though each aspect of Harry's life is matching, perfect symmetry from her home to her car to her older brother. John sighs as he flings open the driver side door and presses himself into the seat. He doesn't want to get philosophical about his sister's life. So he focuses on the car, on the smells and the bad dashboard and all the things wrong with it. It's horrid, but it's transport, and it's enough to hold his possessions for the twenty-or-so minute drive to and from.

Traffic, of course, is god awful. The drive takes something like thirty minutes instead of the typical fifteen, and that seems to merely add to an already boiling psyche. By the time he pulls up in front of the familiar flat, finds parking just on the other side of Speedy's, he's about ready to burst through the door and strangle Sherlock. If he's in, which in this case, John couldn't care less about.

But when he reaches the door, a tiny flurry of panic upsets his stomach. In the car, it seemed all right. John could see himself barging into the flat, could see Sherlock at the window sawing lazily against his violin. He wouldn't even say anything in that scenario, would just move right through and to their—Sherlock's room and grab his things. He'd rush up the stairs and grab up the rest of his belongings, all in one sweep because Heaven forbid he be made to take any more trips than necessary, and then he'd be off.

That's not what he's feeling now. He stares at the brass plates, the same he'd seen day in and day out for what seemed like ages now, and dread creeps up into his chest. He doesn't want to see Sherlock. Not yet, he's not ready yet. If he sees Sherlock now, the chances of him attempting reconciliation are too high, and that's the opposite of what he's trying to do.

(Furniture. An arm chair. Remember that.)

Not even sure that's true.

(Of course it is. Only when convenient, only in-between cases, never the initiator otherwise.)

Sherlock's always been like that. Always one-tracked.

(And yet, when was the track ever—)

Right.

He sticks his key into the familiar latch and gives it a quick twist, shoves the door open as though it may be barricaded on the other side. But it isn't, of course. It's exactly the same. The stairwell sits before him, begs for an ascent that he may not enjoy. It's quiet though—no violin playing, no television on, no pacing or yelling or even muted conversation. Even Mrs. Hudson's gone out, it seems. He's actually a bit sorry for that. Would've liked to apologize and say thank you before he popped off for good.

No time for that now.

John approaches the first step cautiously, ears perked and on high alert. He wants to hear a sound, wants to hear any recognition that the flat at the end of these seventeen steps is occupied by none other than the madman currently residing there. But as he ascends, nothing comes back. Not even the tapping of a keyboard—everything is silent. It's daunting, this journey up. There's a pushing and pulling within his chest: one side is desperate for Sherlock to be in, desperate to look at him and see if he's been at all affected by John's lack of presence. The other side is praying to a God he doesn't believe in (please, please, please) that he's gone out, is on a case, won't be back for hours.

He exhales as he reaches the middle landing. The doors into the flat are closed. No one is in.

Good.

The rest of the steps he takes as normal, jogs up them and throws the door wide open. It looks just as he left it, not a speck out of place. Well, no. There's a mug, full-up, sitting upon his side table. John shakes his head quickly, jumbles his thoughts about as he reminds himself _no, _that is no longer _your _side table and that arm chair is no longer yours either. A pang of something all together uncomfortable pings about in his stomach as he exhales slowly. This isn't time for reminiscing, this is time for packing and leaving. Abandoning ship.

(Go on, then.)

He rounds on his heel and heads immediately upstairs. Not much of his stuff is left in the old bedroom, but his luggage is certainly there and he'll be needing that more than anything. He makes quick work of the little room—pulls out big bags and shoves all of his belongings into them with little regard. Trousers and trinkets and memories he should probably bin but can't be bothered to sort through. Pictures that hadn't been moved, papers and books. All of it gets thrown into whichever suitcase is nearest and zipped up in quite a hurry. He checks the time frequently—he vows to be there for an hour tops, any more than that runs risk that Sherlock would come barging in and that isn't something he wants to handle while packing up.

By the half hour mark, his ro—_that _room is devoid of his possessions. He's trailed the two large suitcases down into the sitting room and has two more to fill. But this is the part that causes his heart to hammer in his chest. Sherlock could be in the room, asleep. Could be laying there, having heard John upstairs, and is merely waiting. Many scenarios could be happening right at that moment, at the very second John stands there staring at the slightly cracked door.

But he's got stuff in there. It has to be done.

He takes slow, cautious steps down the hallway. Any sudden movement may cause—nothing. It may awaken a Sherlock he's not sure is there. It may cause an argument that could easily not happen. Many things that could but probably won't hang heavily, sit uncomfortably on his shoulders. He takes a deep breath as he reaches the door and shuts his eyes. Now or never, grab the stuff and go. He presses the pads of his fingers to the wood and gives it a firm push forward, expects Sherlock's voice to ring out at that moment.

But no, no such thing happens.

He's left standing in silence. John takes a deep, thankful breath and exhales gently. He steps in and opens his eyes and—and all of the anger that had come to seemingly pass beneath nerves wells up again.

All of his possessions are strewn about. Every jumper, ever pair of trousers, every bloody sock and pair of shorts he's got. Chucked against the lamp and heaved all over the floor, ripped from hangers and even pulled from the dirty laundry. It's everywhere, literally. He's almost certain some of it's hidden. He feels the tell-tale boiling of his blood and the muscles in his face begin to twitch in suppressed anger. His fingers clench and release, over and over until he gets the wherewithal to move. He knew Sherlock could be absolutely childish, knew he had the ability to go above and beyond the call of immaturity, but tearing all of John's possessions from their places was just _idiotic. _Why, what had he done to them? Did he simply decide that John's things were of no relevance, that he needed all the bloody space he'd given up back _right _then?

He doesn't bother to look. He simply goes about the room, picking up his strewn jumpers and underpants and the rest of it. He flings it into his bag, fury creeping more and more into each shove and push. Oh, it's so typical. Here he thinks maybe Sherlock could handle something like an _adult, _that he may be able to keep this entire matter civil. John laughs a dark, sardonic laugh at the thought of coming in to find him now. Laughs more at the idea of attempting to reconcile. It's laughable, it really is. Of course, _of course _Sherlock would play these little games. He's surprised his other things weren't in complete disarray.

John plucks his things from the dresser top and the bedside table aggressively, drops them into his bag while muttering to himself. He thinks of all the things he really _should _take, because really _he _bought them and there was no reason for Sherlock to keep it, but it seems like too much work and he really can't be bothered to care. Nope, couldn't give a toss if he had one to spare. He does a quick sweep of the room, to ensure no sock or shoe or bit of spare paper is left behind. And then he heads to the bathroom without a second glance and swipes all of his incidentals there as well.

It is just under the hour mark when he finishes. He takes only the one thing from the kitchen—his mug, the alumni mug from his army days—and bins that into whichever of the bags has room. Anything else doesn't matter, can be thrown away or strewn about at Sherlock's leisure. He's got the important things, the things he cares about, possessions that were his long before they'd ever considered making purchases that became 'theirs'.

A final glance around the room, _that_ sitting room. It's all still very familiar, very home. And despite the aggravation that is pumping steadily in his veins, a sick little feeling drops into the pit of his stomach. Baker Street had been home for—well, a long while now, it seems. With its skulls and its too-many-bookshelves and piles of newspapers. John shakes his head, another re-jumbling of thoughts, and pulls his ring of keys from his pocket. Eventually, it'll go away, the home sickness. Eventually, he'll stop considering Baker Street home, will stop telling cabbies to drop him there, will remember his own eventual address easier than it. Eventually, he'll move on because it's what he does. He moves on.

But for now, when he starts sliding the familiar little silver key from his ring, it hurts as though he may be severing a limb. And when it finally does pop off, it may as well be the sound of a final ligament tearing away. He takes a deep breath as he puts his key ring, sans the most important key, back into his pocket and strides toward Sherlock's chair. Yes, that can continue to be Sherlock's chair. The one across from it, however, will no longer be his.

He settles the little key into the centre of the seat and lifts his hands as though surrendering. In a way, he is. Surrendering any partial ownership of 221B Baker Street back to the original owner. And then he takes a giant step back. He tilts his chin up defiantly and turns on his heel, back toward the four stuffed bags that holds everything he owns. He throws one around his shoulders, the other across his back. Then he hitches the two larger by the handles and begins his adventure down, the very last time he'll be making his way down those seventeen steps.

The very last time he'll be shutting that door behind him.

The very last time, he suspects, he'll be seeing those shiny, brass door placards, declaring the address 221B.

* * *

Sherlock recognizes that scent.

It wafts in the air, hangs like a cloud slowly descending over him. Yes, that scent, he recognizes it immediately, and makes no hesitation as to what it is. It's the exact scent he's been burying his face in for the past week, the one he once had constantly amalgamated in his clothes, in his sheets.

_John._

He doesn't move about the flat any quicker. John's aftershave lingers and he breathes it slowly, as though any loud inhalation will cause it to flicker away. John is in the flat, somewhere. His eyes dash over each room he could be in—kitchen is empty, bedroom door is cracked open, bathroom as well, upstairs is quiet. Was he heard? Was John caught? Sherlock's jaw clenches and he grasps his hands behind his back, straightens his spine. His chin tilts upward haughtily. If he is to present himself to John, it will not be in the raving lunatic fashion his insides are insisting upon. He will, as is his usual state, be of sound mind and complete control. He will walk into whichever room John is in and be the face of stoicism, of yes-you-were-missed-no-I-didn't-go-mental.

Another pause. He listens once again to the flat and there is no indication that anyone is in. But John's aftershave is strong, it's practically clinging to the walls of his nostrils. He has to be about.

So Sherlock steps forward, finally. He walks in the lightest of feet, very nearly a tip toe, toward the bedroom. He must be there, must be seated upon the bed in waiting. There's no way he's not, cannot possibly be anywhere else in the flat. Upstairs movement would've been heard. John would've shut the bathroom door were he inside. Not in the sitting room, not in the kitchen—it's the only place of logic, aside from Mrs. Hudson's, but she's at her sisters for the weekend. Won't return until the evening.

No, bedroom. He must be.

Sherlock stares upon the door as though willing it to open on its own, to allow him the dramatic entrance he desires. Because really, it is _he _who has an affinity for the theatrics, not John. Sherlock who will choose a large, billowing coat for effect where John would prefer the standard hip-length, all practicality. And here, in this scenario, John would choose practicality. He would want to discuss this, to reason out and explain why he had left, why he had returned, and what it all meant. And Sherlock wanted that, despite his feeling toward sentiment.

(John has made forced all this sentimentality into everything.)

John has done nothing wrong.

(Reason the case took so long is because of John.)

That's true. This whole _John _business has taken its toll, has forced a case that should've been solved _days _ago to just come to head in that very morning (Stupid, obvious, _of course _it was identical triplets, how could he be so _daft _to something so _simple.) _But perhaps, had John been by his side and not crowding his head with nonsense, it would've been much simpler. John would've had ideas—stupid ones—that would've jogged his own head. John had become integral to the entire process.

So this is it. The reconciliation. Good. _Finally. _

Sherlock pushes the door and his mouth opens as though he is about to speak, but it shuts immediately. There is no John in the room (though his scent lingers here.) No, there is _absolutely _no John in the room. Every stitch of used-up clothing has been moved (taken?) Every little knick-knack gone missing (the coin jar as well.) He strides across the room and tips over the dirty laundry, shoves through his own clothing and finds that not a single thing of John's remains. Each drawer, each hanger, each space in the room where John once sat has been removed.

In the bathroom, he realizes, it's the same. The shampoos, the soaps, the sponge. The toothpaste and toothbrush. That ridiculous Union Jack towel he insisted was just the right size for him. Gone, nothing, only his own over-priced personal hygiene purchases left behind.

He practically flies up the stairs, bangs right into John's room and it's the same scene. Nothing left. Sherlock checks, thoroughly. Goes through every single drawer in the little oak dresser, flings open the wardrobe and looks into every single nook-and-cranny. Underneath the bed is nothing more than dust and spaces where something might have been. The bedside table's tiny drawer no longer holds his book, or the emergency pack of cigarettes, or anything.

There's nothing left. Literally. Every piece of John in the flat has seemingly vanished into thin air, and it isn't until Sherlock waddles stiff-legged back into the sitting room does he realize, does he put two-and-two together. Oh, of course. He pads toward the kitchen, the one place John may still be, and no—not even there. Even his mug, the one silly little alumni mug that John brought with him... even that's gone.

His feet shuffle him towards his arm chair. John's scent lingers in the flat because he _was _there, of course. How silly of Sherlock to not recognize that. Should've been obvious, what with the scent never growing any stronger. With the complete and utter silence in the flat. Of course, how _stupid _of him, how ridiculously _hopeful. _

(How very sentimental.)

Sherlock's jaw clenches as he approaches his chair. A glimmer of silver upon the seat confirms the entirety of his thought process—a key, just the one. A key to the flat. John's key to the flat, relinquished back to the property. The scent of John is practically gone now, back to the state of things as they once were. He picks up the key and holds it between his fingers, examines it carefully. John's aftershave was obvious when he stepped through the door. It was as though he was _in _the flat, he could've just stepped into the restroom for a moment, could've simply gone out for a split second, could've—

It hits Sherlock just then.

Could've been in the flat no less than five minutes before he'd entered.

He had just missed him. John had been here only moments ago, had stood in the very spot he was standing. His heat signature might have stilled registered, had Sherlock access to such equipment. He had been in the flat, and he had gathered his things himself. John had been in this very room and left his key, and had no intention of coming back. No letter of resignation. No messages of farewell. Just Sherlock, coming back to a flat devoid of him, and a key to bid his _adieu._

Something wells up inside of Sherlock as he stares toward the panes of window glass. He swallows and feels it creeping up in his limbs, starting at a roiling in his stomach and cracking at each vertebrae in his spine. No, not hurt. It's in there, somewhere possibly, an urge to vomit up everything that may be in his stomach (bile, mostly, at this time of day.) No, this is much, much stronger, much more potent. It fills him up and quakes his bones and before he even understands what he is doing, that little silver key is being hurtled at the mirror above the mantle piece as hard as his muscles will allow him to.

No, this is pure, unadulterated _rage._

Sherlock doesn't handle rage well. It blinds him, takes over a usually very-well controlled head and turns it raw and primal, forces it to claw and bite and tear at every logical thought he has. So he chucks the key into the mirror, and the glass cracks around the impact, and _oh _that feels good. There's no way he's stopping now, muscles bunched and coiled and ready to move. He swipes his arm across the mantle—the skull clatters to the floor, cracks at the jaw. The bat and bug display go with it, and the glass breaks. He pulls the knife (that knife, that's been there since the day _he _moved in) and flings it across the room, into the kitchen. And everything, _everything _has to go in the worst way possible.

Books come off the shelf in large sweeps of his long arms. Countless files of photographs and paperwork, all of it is flung into the air, thrown across the room. Oh, and look—the riding crop. Well, there goes the lamp, and the newspapers, and the skull hanging from the wall. There goes another shelf of books, and a bit of the wallpaper. This was once _their _home, and John had ways that things needed to be kept, and now it was not his home any more Sherlock would make sure of that. He would make sure that nothing was left unturned, nothing kept in the same place that John-bloody-Watson wanted it.

And so, there goes the coffee table in a quick, furious burst of an upheaval. There go the cushions from the sofa, flung across the room to wherever. There goes the pebbled glass panes of the kitchen's sliding doors, busted through one-by-one with the heavy end of his crop. A vicious snap of his wrist causes the top end of his own glass equipment to break, to fling shards across the kitchen floor. The sound of glass breaking is soothing, like the tinkle of wind chimes or the patter of rain. Sherlock smashes the plates from every cupboard, mugs that were in constant use, glasses that rarely were. He tugs out drawers and empties them to the floor. Somewhere in his head, he knows this is all stupid. This is a ridiculous over reaction to being left by his lover, but the forefront of his head seems to bite its metaphoric head off, and it retreats.

He just wants _damage. _He wants destruction. He wants the outside to resemble what his insides might look like had they a visual representation. This _is _the visual representation. A world heaved and turned on its head, an exception made and made again. Little promises broken, little murmurs shattered like the most fragile of glass. Sherlock had successfully tamped down emotional connections for a very, very long time. And then John Watson came about and messed the whole system up. He'd have to start from scratch, would have to build up all those walls again because Sherlock did what Sherlock never does, and that was fall in love.

John's chair is the last of the chaos. He tears out the cushion and chucks the side table into the kitchen. He pushes the whole thing over, tips it on it's side, attempts to kick it away and only hurts himself. Oh yes, that's the metaphor, isn't it? Of course it is. No, this isn't _John's _fault. This is his _own _fault. He was the one who allowed the intrusion, who took a pick axe to his own carefully constructed fortress and began creating the pile of rubble he now possessed. And oh, yes. Sherlock recalls, _he _was the one who told John to leave. (_Get out, go on, I work better alone, should've done this sooner._)

Sherlock flops into his own chair and slowly, slowly pulls his legs up to his chest. He wraps his arms around his shins and takes a deep breath. His eyes survey the room—the glass, the wallpaper, the lamps, the coffee table. The pounding anger in his head is still there, throbbing away quite impressively. But no, he's doesn't want to answer, can't be bothered.

(Should've looked at the evidence.)

None of it was concrete.

(Said it himself.)

Could've meant anything.

("_I'm done._")

Could've meant the argument.

("_You're leaving?"_)

Should've known.

(Ignoring evidence is dangerous work.)

Denial is a sickly sort of emotion.

(No one's fault but—)

Yes, yes. Very aware, thank you.


	4. Bargaining

**Author's Note:** Thank you for any of those reading. Apologies for lack of update. Here, have one.

* * *

"I'm off out." John calls into the flat, snatching up his keys. He pats his pockets quickly, ensures he's got everything necessary—keys in hand, phone in coat, wallet in trousers—then calls again. "Did you hear me?"

"Yeah, all right, I heard you." Harry calls back.

"Did you need anything while I'm gone?"

"Erm, if you want to grab some milk."

John swallows quietly. It's one of those automated responses, something that just _happens_ whenever something silly ends up popping up in his head. One of those ridiculous little memories that creeps in from the back and reminds him that once upon a time, he was the sole purveyor of household milk. Because Sherlock was shit at shopping, and couldn't be arsed, and it was irritating.

(Endearing.)

Not endearing, just irritating.

(Go on, the dumb look on his face he'd get?)

Was annoying. Couldn't even be bothered to get milk.

(Like a lost puppy.)

A bit confused.

(Eyes would go all saucer-like, lips would turn down a bit—)

Shut up.

"John, did you hear me?" Harry asks, emerging from the bathroom. A towel is over her head, and she's rubbing it viciously against her scalp. John snaps to, looks to the smaller figure and blinks dimly. Harry looks up and rolls her eyes. "Right, of course not. Off in your head again, I imagine."

"Erm—"

"Was only asking if you could possibly pick it up this time? I've got no—"

"I was going to, Harry."

She gives him a rueful smile and heads back to the bathroom, silence following after her. He sighs as he shakes his head, clears away the thoughts of Sherlock and his endearing puppy sort of looks (stop that) to make way for the day. Had to, after all. Couldn't just go on moping about after a month, could he? Besides, Mike had called him round. Wife wanted to have him over for tea. Quite nice, actually. It'd be fun.

He traipses his way to the main road to wait for the bus. Normally, he might have just taken Harry's car, but the smell was getting to be too bad and she was heading to work and really, the bus was just fine with him. The problem with the bus, however, is that it always allows him to get trapped in his own head for a bit.

Sherlock hadn't attempted to call, nor text, nor seek him out in any way. And that should've been fine, really. Should've been just what John had wanted but—no. He'd always assumed that if Sherlock had cared for him, he might have at least tried. Would've wanted to talk about it. Or, more in Sherlock fashion, would've demanded answers to questions that never got resolved. Sentences that never got finished.

But no, none of that had happened. Not a single one.

Not that John was checking, of course. Not that he'd been glued to his phone, jumping at every little alert. Not that he'd been hoping it was Sherlock every time (it never was.) No, John was moving on. He was doing fine. He'd started going out again, had gone down to the pub a few times and socialized like a normal human being. He'd even found the gall to exchange mobile numbers with a fairly attractive woman he'd met there. Hadn't called her, of course, but he'd done it. And that—as Harry had proclaimed—was a step in the right direction.

And he knows, he _knows _it's no fault but his own. He got caught up, thought it was something more than it had been. He knew right from the beginning that Sherlock, of all people, avoided those sort of intimacies. They weren't his strong suit. It was the one subject he had little personal experience in. But—John sighs as the bus trundles its way toward him, makes a complete stop just as his feet. The doors open and he steps up and inward.

But when it was good, it was _fantastic. _That's the problem. John had been in a few relationships in his life (okay, that was putting it a bit mildly) and they'd been pretty good at their best. But with Sherlock, the entirety of relationship was redefined. Perfected, in those moments. John could sit upon the couch, staring blankly at the television, and Sherlock would simply _be _there, wordlessly laying his head upon John's lap and going about his business. There was a calm, a stillness in the two of them. No words required, just enjoyed when the timing was right.

John finds an open seat beside a tall, gangly kid with a shock of green hair. He eyes John as though he may be some sort of slime producing bug before looking back out the window.

Laying in bed at night was the best. Not every night, of course. Some things didn't change—Sherlock on a case meant he was up until it was over, and John was all right with that. Because when it did finally come down to it, to the two of them stripping down and getting beneath the duvet, it was worth the fuss. Sherlock—much more of a cuddler than people seemed to realize—would curl up into John's body, would wrap endless limbs about him in every way he possibly could.

_"—What if I grew another head?"_

_ "You would be much more interesting to look at then."_

_ "What, you think I'm uninteresting to look at now?"_

_ "Did I say that?"_

_ "You implied it."_

_ "I implied no such thing. I stated that—had you a second head—you would be more interesting to look at."_

_ "You said _much more_ interesting."_

_ "Which implies that you are interesting to look at now, and that the added head would make you even_ more_ interesting."_

John gives a shake of his head, tries to scatter the memory into the recesses of his brain. No, he shouldn't be thinking about that. He's moving on, not sulking about in his mind, thinking back to all the good times. Because they were good _times_, and the bad always came with them.

(In all fairness, every relationship comes with good and bad.)

Yes, but one should also determine which bit outweighs the other.

(Bit overzealous, that.)

Shut _up._

The bus moves at an alarmingly slow rate, it seems. The kid next to him keeps eyeing him as though he may consider squashing him beneath his boot. Every time the bus turns, the kid spreads across the seats a little more. At the next turn, John finally stands, makes for the back of the bus and waits it out there. He's already put himself into a fantastically foul mood and anything to push him closer to the edge should be avoided.

His stop lands him a block away from Mike Stamford's flat. He shoves his hands into his pocket and treks the short distance with a scowl and his head tilted downward. He shouldn't have thought of Sherlock. It was the last thing he should've thought of. Only messed him up, got his head in the wrong space.

It was Harry's fault.

(Don't be a twat.)

No, of course not.

Mike greets him with a warm smile and a sturdy handshake, invites him into his flat with a small gesture of his hand. Mrs. Stamford is cordial, a smile of her own plastered across her face. "Expect getting here wasn't too bad?" Mike asks, taking John's coat.

"Ah, no. Not too terrible."

"Good, good." Mike agrees, nodding his head. He looks toward the kitchen, where his wife has retreated, and looks back to John. "You'll have to excuse her, she's—" He looks for words to say, but nothing seems to come to head. John waits though, wants to know exactly what she is. Mike licks his lips and takes a deep breath, moves in a bit closer, "She's a bit _weary, _I suppose. Obviously knows about your—" He pauses, sighs. Ah, John thinks to himself, a bit weary that—maybe she believes he'll attempt to steal Mike from her if hung about too long. Maybe he should make a pass at him, just for fun.

"Right. Isn't she the one who invited me round?" John asks, brows furrowed and eyes averted to the floor. He licks his lips and gives a hesitant look to Mike, who looks a bit uncomfortable. He gives a little sigh, looks back to the kitchen once again and moves in closer still, "Sort of a self-therapy thing, if you know what I mean." He practically whispers. "Thinks it'll be easier to get over this—this _phobia _if she deals with it head-on."

"And so she decided to start with me."

Mike gives a sheepish smile and a little shrug. "I'd have had you round sooner but—"

"No need, no need."

Mrs. Stamford doesn't talk much. She settles the pot at the coffee table and distributes quietly. She wears the same plastered smile over her face the entire time. Mike makes most of the conversation, and all of it is a bit awkward. The tea is nice though, at the very least. It's not too terrible, until—"So have you spoken with—" Mike asks, cuts off before he can finish his thought.

John's jaw tightens and he hesitates before slowly sipping at his tea. "No." He answers after a moment.

"Oh, that's—well."

"Yeah, it's a process."

"Not even for cases?"

John swallows and keeps his lips trapped against the lip of his cup. He doesn't want to have this conversation. There is no need for the conversation to be taking place. He doesn't reply, but Mike goes on. "I've seen him a few times. You know, about the labs. He's—"

John clears his throat loudly, settles his cup against the saucer and gives Mike a pointed look. "I'm not actually interested in hearing about it, thanks." He replies. He tries to make it sound as nice as possible, as polite as he physically can, but just the thought of Sherlock Holmes starts mixing up ridiculous emotions in his chest that he really, _really _can't afford to cope with in the Stamford home. An awkward silence hovers over the room and Mrs. Stamford clears her throat delicately. "I'll go grab a few more biscuits, shall I?" she offers, standing and heading for the kitchen before anyone can say otherwise.

John stares at the cup before him. Mike opens his mouth to say something, but John feels his phone vibrate against his chest and lets out a quiet sigh (of relief.) "Where's the toilet?" he asks, his ultimate get away. "I've a call I need to make, and—"

"Down the hall, first door on the left." Mike replies quickly. Apparently, he's quite keen on a break as well. John gives a nod of gratitude and stands, escapes quickly from the room and enters at the first door on the left.

Deep breath. Mike hadn't meant any harm in his questioning, nor his commentating. Mike was—he was just a _buffoon _at times, could really be quite dim on occasion. Wasn't exactly the most delicate of people, usually. Couldn't see when something needed to be left alone right away. He hadn't meant anything by pushing, just—John sighs and rolls his neck along his shoulders. He needs a moment, just a little one, just to gather himself. His phone vibrates against his chest once again and he wonders why Harry's being so insistent about nothing as he pulls it from his coat. He taps the side button quickly and the screen takes a moment before it comes to life.

_Need your assistance at Baker Street. SH_

John's heart, he swears, drops right from his body. He stares at the screen as though it has just spoken Chinese at him, brows furrowed and eyes blinking rapidly. He checks the number it came from and, yes, that's certainly Sherlock. John slides his phone open and stares longer at the message. For what? What could Sherlock possibly need? Surely he wasn't seriously asking for John's assistance on anything? Slowly, carefully, he replies:

_Think you've got the wrong number._

Good. He slides his phone closed as it sends and shoves it back into his pocket. Seeing a message from Sherlock may as well have been seeing it from a ghost—he can't think straight. He's wondering if Sherlock really did get the wrong number, if he slipped a finger and hit the wrong name. He shouldn't be feeling this anxious about messages from Sherlock, should be the cool, casual one. Nothing wrong here, it was necessary, had to be done. He takes a deep breath and halts halfway as his phone vibrates once again. Oh, Christ.

_Urgent matter, John. Come at once. SH_

Oh God.

John takes a deep breath and slides his phone open once again. His fingers are poised over the keyboard, ready to type in a reply, but everything comes up blank. He should reply with something witty, omit any sort of emotional draw that's actually pulling him. Instead, he takes a deep breath and simply types in:

_No. _

Yeah, that works. He sends it off and sticks the phone back into his pocket, makes a show of washing his hands for anyone who may be listening and finally makes his way back out into the sitting room, where Mike and his wife are sat close in quiet discussion.

"Sorry." John apologies, making his way back to his seat. "It was—" He pauses only briefly to sit, to consider who it should be. "Harry. Reminding me about milk." He lies. Hopes it isn't obvious. Knows it won't be, as long as he keeps a smile. Mike nods and Mrs. Stamford says nothing, really, just gives that same, plastered smile. He clears his throat and settles back into his seat properly. "So—Mike, how's teaching then?" John asks, casual and collected. He's fine, no. Sherlock didn't just text him. It's all fine.

Until his phone vibrates once again.

He swallows quietly and reaches into his pocket, snatches out his phone. Attempts to divide his attention between Mike's tale of students to the screen now lighting up with another message from Sherlock.

_Twenty minutes of your time is all I ask. SH_

As though negotiating. John takes a deep breath and nods at something, laughs at another. He slides his phone open and apologizes to Mike once again. He's not sure how to reply. He's not entirely sure he can manage twenty minutes at Baker Street. Not alone with Sherlock, not just the two of them. He might—who knows what might happen. He clears his throat again, quietly, to himself as he replies finally:

_Ten minutes and I won't be sitting._

This is a mistake. This is a giant mistake and he really, _really _shouldn't be doing it. John takes a deep breath and pockets his phone once again. He tries to focus back on the conversation, tries _desperately _not to think about the fact that—once again—his phone is vibrating against his chest, matching the beat of his heart. He sips at his tea and looks appropriately interested and even gets Mrs. Stamford to chuckle just a bit. His phone vibrates twice more over the span of ten minutes. It isn't until he's finished his cup does he reach for his phone again. Two more messages, three in total, all from Sherlock:

_I'll expect you in thirty minutes. SH_

_ Perhaps twenty is more likely. SH_

_ Or maybe even fifteen. SH_

Same as usual. Mrs. Stamford pours more tea, delicate as she does, as John makes to reply to all three texts:

_Won't be round until later. Busy until then. _

After all, if he's going to bend to Sherlock's will (which he shouldn't be doing, should not even remotely be considering,) it should be on his time. He doesn't yet put away his phone, expects another text declaring Sherlock's unhappiness with such a situation. But it doesn't come. Nothing comes for a moment, just a radio silence that John is torn between appreciating and despising. And then finally his phone buzzes once again. He has to allocate every ounce of control he has in order not to fling his phone open immediately to read the incoming text.

_As you wish. SH_

John's brows furrow. Then one quirks. Sherlock conceding so readily? Perhaps the span of time unanswered was unseen irritation.

_Though I did specify its urgency. SH_

Ah. John smirks to himself and puts his phone away. Yes, he'll be waiting a few hours now. He'll leave Stamford's relatively soon (really, how much tea could he drink,) he'll head to Tesco's and pick up the end pieces, and then he'll relax. Pull himself together and make sure he'd be able to take on Sherlock in whatever fashion he presents himself. For whatever reason.

(It'll be something idiotic.)

Maybe.

(Something for a case.)

There is a possibility.

(What if it's something more?)

The answer's still no.

(Not even if he—)

Obviously not.

(Discounting so soon?)

Discounting immediately.

(Besides, he wouldn't do that.)

Exactly, he would never.

(That would only be wishful thinking.)

That would only be romanticising him.

(And no need to go and do that.)

Not a reason in the world.

* * *

That is _annoying._

Being told when to expect someone. Expecting someone sooner and having them change the time in their favour. Power play, Sherlock understands. He's not an idiot after all. Fine, if John wanted to have the power in this circumstance, than he could be allowed to do so. But honestly, what a low stab at power it is.

Fine.

He's nervous now though, now that the time is approaching. He'd been fine really, up until John had finally replied with a time (quite late.)

(Intentionally late?)

(Why would John be intentionally late?)

Excuse to leave quickly.

(No more than ten minutes.)

Ten minutes is nothing, surely John realizes that.

(He's also no idea why he's being called around.)

Sure he's figured it out.

(Probably not. He's an idiot.)

A little bit.

Sherlock rolls his shoulders and sets the kettle to boil. This must go accordingly. He must not foul this up with improper language or bad tea. It must be done in the most orderly of fashions. He must state his case for John in a quick, efficient manner and then the persuasion may begin.

He wouldn't admit it to anyone else, of course, but the flat's gone—well, _dull_ without John about. It's a wreck, mostly. The smiling face spray painted on the wall only sneers at him now, no longer grins gladly for target practice. The silences are now too silent—which, once upon a time, would not have perturbed Sherlock. But much like the rest of his life, he'd acclimatized to John's presence. Even in times when absolute silence was a necessity, he would find some solace in John's gentle, padded footsteps. Attempting to be as quiet as possible, always managing to create extra noise. Would hit his toe against the table, would spill a bit of tea on his chest. And each of Sherlock's thoughts would be intruded upon by a quiet curse beneath John's breath.

At first it was irritating. Then it was simply annoying. And now it was necessary to his thought process.

Sherlock does not seem to function at his best without John around. It's not exactly something he's fond of. There was a time, of course, when Sherlock worked alone and it was fine. No assistance required. Well, some assistance required, but Lestrade had done all right (wrong.) Okay, Lestrade was awful as a soundboard. Asked all the wrong questions. Didn't stir the right thoughts into Sherlock's head. Got him off track, off course.

No, John is a necessity. Like the food and sleep he insists Sherlock needs. An integral part of a working system.

And so Sherlock is convinced he can get him to come back.

He checks the time again and exhales gently. If he's staying with his sister, it means he's had to take a cab. As far as Sherlock knows, the last place Harry was residing in was in Stepney. Twenty minutes from here on a good day, thirty on a normal. Forty in a cab, he's almost certain. John's punctual, so he'd be arriving any minute. A tell-tale flutter bubbles up in Sherlock's chest and he immediately tamps it down. No, none of that. Must have best foot forward in this scenario. Must _not _be a raving lunatic. Well, not completely.

A buzz sounds throughout the flat and Sherlock swallows. He expected John to walk in without precedence, as he always had. It's uncomfortable to remember social manners in such a situation.

Another deep breath. Sherlock holds it in his chest as he makes his way down the stairs and toward the front door. John (obviously John, who else) hits the buzzer once again, holds it for a little longer. Thinks Sherlock is ignoring it, hasn't heard it. Blatant annoyance. Bad way to start. He gives himself a tiny nod as he grabs the door knob and pulls it open.

There stands John, looking no worse for wear. A little nervous, perhaps (arms crossed over chest—defensive, shoulders hunched just slightly—attempting to close in on self) but exactly as he remembers him (of course, as though John may look different, as though he may have grown another limb.) Sherlock gives what he hopes looks to be a perfectly casual smile (doesn't feel right, lip quirks too much, it looks like a smirk) before stepping aside and allowing John through. "Bit cold out, do come in." He says with a gesture of his arm.

"Yeah." John replies, and it's a bit stiff and awkward. Yeah, indeed.

"Kettle's just boiled." Sherlock adds, as incentive.

"Oh, right. Good." Another stiff retort. They stand awkwardly in the foyer, John's arms acting as some sort of shield, Sherlock's skin feeling too small for his bones. He leads the way—kicks the door shut behind him and passes John in his typical fashion, traipses up the stairs and back into the flat. A part of him, some paranoid little man leaping about in his stomach, fears John will not follow. Thinks he may just turn right back around, head out the door and into the night. It causes Sherlock to very nearly turn in his spot, ensure that John is coming up, will be in the sitting room a moment after he is.

He doesn't need to. He can hear John's footsteps fall out of sync with his own after the first few steps. John is a man of his word. Sherlock will get his ten minutes.

"Tea?" Sherlock asks upon striding through the door. He can hear John's hesitation in coming in too far—he stops just a few steps in and doesn't take off his coat (making a point, not staying long enough to get comfortable.) He glances back to look to John, who is shutting his mouth. Was he going to make a quip? Some snide little slight about Sherlock never making tea? Perhaps. It seems likely. It doesn't happen—too intimate to refer back to, wants to stay separate from memories. Difficult John Watson.

"Just the one sugar still?" Sherlock decides to inquire, "Splash of milk?"

John's brow quirks, and it's a little more than he's willing to give, because it settles instantly. Ah, surprise. Surprised Sherlock remembered such a detail. "Yeah, that'll do." He says, clearing his throat and giving a weak impersonation of a smile. Sherlock nods, just the once, and heads for the kitchen.

The flat goes silent. John hasn't moved. He's inspecting it, Sherlock imagines. Can almost feel him checking the walls and the furniture, seeing just what has changed in the month long absence. Sherlock had attempted to clean up a bit, thought perhaps it may be best not to have the ashtrays full (nothing more than cigarettes, thankfully,) but even he can admit that the state of the place is dismal in comparison to its former.

"Please sit." Sherlock encourages as he makes his way from the kitchen. Two cups of tea, one for John. Not in his mug, not the same. He gives a cordial smile as he hands it off, gestures for the chair that is rightfully his (will probably always be John's, the stupid thing, at least in Sherlock's head.) John doesn't move, simply watches as Sherlock makes for his own chair. Of course, John had said that as well. Ten minutes, and he won't be sitting.

"What am I doing here? You said it was urgent." John says.

Sherlock nods and clears his throat. "I would _appreciate _if you were to have a seat." The cordial smile remains on his lips, tampered with a hint of mild annoyance. "Conversations are best done at eye-level. Neither feels as though the other may attack, or leave mid-sentence."

"Is this going to be a conversation?" John asks, giving a patented _John _look—eyebrows raised, face open and sarcastically inquisitive. Sherlock's smile doesn't falter, can't afford to. He gives a small nod, gestures once more for the armchair with a long sweep of an arm. "Please, John." He says, softly. "Take a seat."

He can tell that John is fighting it, is battling it out in his head. He's deciding whether to give Sherlock the ten minutes he's promised, whether he should sit or stay standing or flee from the room in a hurry. In the end, it seems, courtesy takes over. His jacket remains snug over his body and he looks as though he may leave at any moment, but he does sit, which is a start.

"Thank you." Sherlock says, gently. Docile tones seem to be helping. He'll have to keep that in mind. He straightens his spine and squares his shoulders just a touch, forces his body to look proper and semi-authoritative. He settles his tea beside him and looks to John. "I know I've only an allotted amount of time, therefore I'll make this quick." He says, to no verbal reply. "I've been considering the circumstances under which we—" He pauses here, as though attempting to fit an inoffensive phrase there. "Under which we parted ways," He decides. "And they weren't the most desirable."

"No, they weren't." John agrees, and it surprises Sherlock to hear it.

"I thought it might be _wise _for us to, perhaps, sit down and discuss the matter further." Sherlock says, informatively, "Maybe we can come to some sort of resolution, or agreement, or—"

"No." John says.

"What?" Sherlock replies.

"No." John repeats.

Sherlock's brows furrow and his lips part as though he's going to speak, but John shakes his head. "No, Sherlock," he says, setting his tea aside. "Because we could talk about it until we're blue in the face, and you wouldn't get it," He explains to Sherlock's confusion, "You'd argue your point and I'd argue my point and that would be that."

"You can't possibly know that, John." Sherlock counters, though it's not his strongest counterpoint and he is quick to think of more, "I've done countless hours of thinking, days even. Holed up in here, nothing but _thinking _about what happened, what was done wrong, what needed changing, and—"

"And did you figure it out?" John asks. His face contorts, and it almost physically pains Sherlock to see it. It's a look of hope, mixed with weariness, mixed with irritation, mixed with—everything, probably. It's hard to suss out which shows up more.

Sherlock swallows. He licks his lips and looks down to his lap. "No," he confesses, "I haven't."

He can see it from his peripheral vision, the slow bob of John's head. He sees the shift in John's posture, the clasping of the arms of the chair, the eventual forward momentum of standing. Sherlock scrambles for purchase in his head, to make John go back to sitting, and it comes blurting out until he can think it through properly, "But you can tell me!" He proclaims. "_You _know what happened, what went wrong, where I can improve, John. You—"

"I can't." John interrupts, simply.

"You _can, _but you won't." Sherlock retorts.

"I can, and I could, but you're right. I won't."

"But then how do I change if I don't know what's wrong?" Sherlock practically shouts. Frustration is now evident, docile tones long gone. Hadn't meant for it to happen, it's just—_irritating_, as though this is some sort of game. Is it? Is this just a strategy game that Sherlock doesn't understand? He looks back to John and he is standing. So Sherlock's stands, too. "If you _can't _figure out what's wrong, then you _aren't _going to be able to change it." John tells him plainly.

"So then, in theory, if _you _were to tell me, then I'd be able to change it." Sherlock replies, as though reiterating a point.

"No, if I tell you, you'll get a superficial idea of what should be different." John argues, "It still won't make any sense, and you'll be sitting about trying to figure out _what _to change, or _how _to do it, and that's not going to work."

"Then _help me_, John." Sherlock pleads, just a little. It sounds more irritated than the latter, but John stops and stares. After a moment, he shakes his head. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Look, Sherlock. We—we both knew this was a risk." He says, exhaling as he looks back up. He waves a hand between the two of them, flopping at the wrist. "We knew that, right from the beginning. Polar opposites, remember?" As though Sherlock could forget. As though the memory of their first discussion, a proper one, could somehow slip his mind. "We knew the chances of this working out, like _this _was risky. I'm a needy twat and you're a selfish prick." Simple, truthful. "Let's just—let's just cut our losses."

He doesn't sound like he'd like to cut his losses. John sounds like every word hurts, like every single word that comes from his mouth is accompanied by a knife, and each one is rubbing against his insides. Sherlock isn't stupid. He can see that, can see the weariness in John's face. He swallows down more argument and watches John's face for a moment before quiet words that he hadn't quite permitted come tumbling from his mouth: "Please come home."

That very sentence may have ruined John. Sherlock can't tell, obviously, not having the ability to delve into a humans thoughts, but it seems that way. The flash of something in his eyes, the droop of an already-turned-down mouth. The sag of his shoulders and the general exhaustion that seems to overtake him. Sherlock hadn't meant that to be his reaction. But he's not against it. He continues on, "It's too quiet. I can't think properly. The flat doesn't settle right." They come out rapid-fire, insistent.

There are a million other things Sherlock could say. How he finds himself missing John's tea, and his nagging, and the warmth of his body at night. How he hasn't slept properly since he left, not really. How he considers and thinks and analyses every instance he ever didn't accept a hug or a kiss or just a pat on the shoulder and why he would've done that and how he never would again. But none of it comes out, it all get stuck in his throat and John stands there waiting for more and gets none. All that comes out is, "I'll change," and it's not convincing, and he has no idea where it came from.

And John doesn't stand for it.

He shakes his head and puts up his hands, surrendering, defensive. He backs up the whole step he can and turns for the door. No words, nothing. He'd leave and say nothing else and Sherlock can't have that, can't possibly allow him to walk out the door without something more. So there is a moment of panic, so uncharacteristic of Sherlock that it makes no sense in his head, but his feet move him and he reaches out for John before he can walk through the doorway. He shoves him against the nearest wall and John almost gets the chance to protest, but no—no, don't do that either John.

Before Sherlock understands what his body is doing, he is crushing his mouth to John's, hard and hurried, aggressive and needy. He is pinning him to his spot and forcing their bodies together, and somewhere in his head he knows he shouldn't, that this isn't right. John is squirming a little bit, not much, not really. He's hardly fighting and then he's not and then he's participating.

And it's glorious. It's grand and fantastic and beautiful. John's mouth hasn't changed, tastes like tea and toothpaste from an hour ago and _John_, and his tongue swipes itself into Sherlock's mouth, over his lips. The world turns itself upright for a moment and this is how it's supposed to be, Sherlock and John in their flat, mid-to-late-thirties but kissing like they're in their early-to-mid-twenties. John's hands fix themselves against Sherlock's hips, pull him closer still. Sherlock gives the quietest of groans, an instinctive reaction to force from John, and feels need creep up into his spine.

No words are spoken. John pushes the two of them off the wall, lips firmly affixed to Sherlock's mouth. He leads him, pushes and prods Sherlock backward, down the hall and into his room. Oh, it's all very familiar, just like before. Need and hunger, hips stirring and warmth lapping at the base of the spine. He shoves John's coat off his shoulders, peels it down off his arms in a hurry and discards it in the hallway. They manage themselves out of shoes as best they can, slipping them from heels and tripping over them in graceless sort of fumbles.

But once they're there, once they fall into the mattress of Sherlock's bed (their bed?), grace doesn't quite matter. By that point, it's a torrential tearing of clothing, of getting each other out of shirts and jumpers and trousers and socks. All while, somehow, still keeping mouth-to-mouth (they'd be breathing the same air, pass out and need revival soon enough—that's fine.) There are sounds emanating from the both of them, little whimpers and gasps, breathy groans and murmured half-words. Because it's primal, it's necessary. They need skin like they need the oxygen they're depriving themselves of.

Sherlock doesn't mention his overzealous joy at John's remembrance of their room. Wants to say something about innate actions and instinctive motions and how _right _it all feels, but he holds back. Lays back obediently and lays himself out for John, makes room as he always had and probably always would. He doesn't bother stifling the quiet gasps and groans as John prepares his body, finds his hands struggling for purchase against the sheets over his head and gripping for life when they finally do.

Neither speak. It seems as though words may ruin it, like the world has fallen silent, like the water has finally settled into a smooth, glassy surface. If they speak, it breaks. A stone gets thrown in and the ripples begin, turn into waves that won't die down. Not in time, anyway. Sherlock is okay with this, likes the sound of John's breathing and his own hitched little gasps, of skin moving over skin. His fingers grip tighter, knuckles turn white. His body is clamouring for attention, to be touched anywhere else, everywhere else. And he almost begs, almost—his lips form around the word "please," but it never comes out.

John is intuitive though, it seems. Or perhaps he's in his own hurry, perhaps his body is screaming in the same ways that Sherlock's is. Because a moment later John is sprawled across his body, lips securely fastened to Sherlock's and attempting to suffocate him. At least, that's how it seems. Sherlock loses his ability to breathe. No, he surrenders it. That seems more likely, given the circumstance. He simply _allows _John to thieve the air from his lungs as he lifts his legs, wraps them high up around John's hips.

Oh, and then he can feel John. Can feel him pushing his hips, breaching Sherlock's body and sliding into him. Both groan, against each other's lips. Sherlock's eyes squeeze shut and he attempts to breathe, but that seems almost impossible. He clutches his sheets tighter, his head forces itself harder against the mattress. Then there is movement, a slow drag leaving him, one that causes a stammer of breaths to tip from his mouth. A hand flies up to grab at John's skin, embeds his fingertips into John's spine and has no intention of letting him go.

The room is silent outside of this. Outside of John's breathing, outside of his moans. They're in Sherlock's neck, planting themselves in his skin as though they intend on nesting there. John's teeth and tongue drag over his throat, a familiar sensation of pain and pleasure scraping over his nerves. He knows he's making sounds, but how to define them doesn't come to fruition. Perhaps they don't need to be defined. Perhaps he can lay there and squeeze John tighter against him, can enjoy the friction of their bodies sliding over his own aching erection between them. He can revel in the welcomed invasion of his body. He can pant into John's ear, lips pressed as close as they'll go. He whimpers there, "_John," _and John groans in reply, his hips buck with a little more deliberation.

Sherlock's hands travel downward, work their way toward John's arse and give a squeeze. No, not a squeeze. A push. A plea for more, it seems. Sherlock is giving John quiet signals, taking action. He wants _more _of John, always more, wants him pressed up against his organs it seems and so he pushes as much as he can.

And then—and then there is a rush of sensations. Warmth pooling at the base of his spine, a building up and up and up against his hips of all those familiar sensations. He clamours to hang on to whichever bit of John he can, struggles to keep their bodies pressed so tight they might meld together. His breathing is becoming ragged, tiny escaped moans coming from his throat. Sherlock knows John isn't too far behind. He knows because he always knows—from the erratic breathing to the slowing dissolving coordination of his hips. The tell tale for such a position is this: he kisses him. Hard and needy and desperate to stifle himself, he forces their mouths together and it hurts in the best way possible. His tongue invades every little space Sherlock's mouth contains, and then loses focus and simply breathes him in.

It happens, not seconds before Sherlock feels his own body break beneath the sensation. John's mouth covers his, he swallows down all the sounds that Sherlock makes and stifles his own into Sherlock's lips. Growls come from somewhere in John's chest, deep and rumbling as he buries himself deep and lets himself go.

The room fills with gentle panting. Sweat lingers in the air like a cloud, hanging low and humid above them. John kisses him, or maybe he kisses John. Sherlock can't tell, but their mouths meet properly once again, a languid movement of lips and tongue sliding over one another. When it halts, when they stop, John pulls his hips back, leaves Sherlock's body. And for a moment, Sherlock panics. Just a little bit, just a little sporadic flutter of his heart. "Stay." He says, before John can get any other ideas.

John swallows. He looks to Sherlock and something flickers in his eyes, something familiar and warm, something good. "Please stay." Sherlock repeats, quieter, a near whisper.

And much to Sherlock's surprise, he does.


	5. Depression

AN: If you've been waiting for this story to update/finish, thank you. I'm just about done with it, actually-but a girl has to stretch this as long as she can, doesn't she? Lol.

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

The sunlight is muted mostly by the curtains, though it's still bright against his face. The duvet is warm, pulled around his body in its entirety. Sherlock's mouth is dry and he smacks his lips as though trying to wet them, swallows down the little bit of saliva still in his mouth. And his body is sore. Not very much, just a twinge of ache, just a little reminder. A pleasant one. He inhales deeply and opens his eyes, tips himself over to look upon John's face. Yes, John. He'd come round last night and had stayed when Sherlock asked him to.

Oh. John isn't there.

Well, no matter. Obviously he's already up. Usually is, quite the early riser. Has been since Sherlock has known him, at any rate. Army training, yes. Sherlock's well aware of the early-to-rise motto of the serving soldiers. John Watson, forever scheduled to awake at six in the morning, on the dot. Sherlock rolls his eyes affectionately and buries himself into the sheets and pillow. It smells right, finally. John all over, his soap and shampoo, his aftershave. The smell of his skin, the combination of all things. Right there, in the little fabric of his pillow.

When he lifts his head from his unintended sanctuary, the smell of breakfast wafts into his nose. Eggs and sausage and beans, everything that John quite enjoys fixing up when in the mood to. Everything he'd force down Sherlock's throat—and Sherlock would gladly accept this time around. He'd sit and John would slide the plate far too full in front of Sherlock. He'd say something like "You look like you haven't had a bite in weeks," and Sherlock wouldn't deny that he'd eaten very little in the time. So he'd oblige, and John would be pleased with the change in demeanour.

And he'd stay. Of course he'd stay. They'll have to go round to Harry's, Sherlock finds himself thinking, to pick up his possessions. Oh, he can only imagine what sort of _hole_ Harriet Watson lives in. Some little, dirty flat. Probably smells of old take-away and lager. John would be _ecstatic _to get out of her hovel. Sherlock would accompany him, of course. He'd stalk about the sitting room and pretend to be observing what are surely dark bottles of wine and wrappers. He'd check for spots on the ceiling and in the carpet, he'd try to decide if he can see the outline of John's body in the cushions (he's been sleeping on the sofa, obviously.) Perhaps they'd do that just this afternoon.

And when they both returned to Baker Street, Sherlock would insist that John's possessions—all of them—be put away in _his _room. Then it would be there room, once again. But this time, there would be no hesitation. There would be no slow amalgamation. All in one go, _theirs. _Sherlock feels a little silly, overly giddy. He's thinking too romantically, is being far too sentimental. He promises that when he goes to the kitchen to greet John, he will have eviscerated the ridiculous vision of "his-and-his" towels hanging in the bathroom.

Not that they had crossed his head, mind you.

It takes him a moment to finally chuck the blanket from his body and throw his legs over the side of the bed. His body feels much stiffer than he had anticipated—a single month of going without and already he's resorting to some sort of novice state. He pads toward the wardrobe and pulls from it a blue dressing gown. The fabric feels cool and smooth against his naked skin—he wonders, for a single moment, why he hasn't worn them in the nude more. He ties it closed around him quite loosely, fumbles with the rope in a mostly obliging sort of way. For the sake of posterity and all.

Sherlock holds back on whistling as he walks quietly down the hallway. The smell of breakfast is more tempting than he'd realised. Perhaps it had been quite some time since he'd eaten properly, perhaps sex and breakfast would fix him up quite right. John is a necessity in this flat, in Sherlock's personal workings. This is obvious. He thinks, to flatter John, he might tell him all those other things that didn't quite make it out of his mouth the night before. He can watch the lines of John's face shift into the warm smile he seems to reserve for lovers, for Sherlock. Can watch the way John's eyes go soft, how his shoulders hunch gently, relax in something like a shrug.

Sherlock thinks he might be a whole new man. Well, perhaps that's stretching it a bit far. He thinks at least twenty-two percent of himself has been altered in the course of an evening. Maybe a bit more.

"A _full _English? You must be feeling _ambitious_," Sherlock says just before he rounds the corner. He knows John will scoff, will retort something about how it's more than he can say of Sherlock Holmes. He rounds the corner and looks to the stove, familiar in the same spot it continues to stay.

But he does not find John there.

Mrs. Hudson gives a startled little jump backward, away from the oils and fires that burn before her, and turns to look to Sherlock. "Goodness," she says, giving her face a delicate little fan with her fan. "You gave me a fright, Sherlock. You should announce yourself, stalking about as you do." She turns back to the stove, shaking her head as she continues. "Could've given me a _heart attack _just then."

Sherlock's brows furrow and he stares at the back of his landlady's head as though another has sprouted from it. "What are you doing?" he asks her. Suddenly his dressing gown feels much too light, much too loose. He feels like he might as well be standing naked in this kitchen, with Mrs. Hudson just feet away. He pulls it tighter around him, covers up to his neck as though the best of him has been exposed.

"Fixing breakfast," she tells him simply. Her scolding features have gone light and pleasant once again, a bright little smile coming across her face. "I was going to come round and give you a shake if you weren't up before I finished up here—it's never the same once you have to reheat it, is it?" she goes on, her head tilting from side to side as she meddles with something before her. "Could've heated up the oven a bit though, let it warm and kept your plate in there..." she trails off thoughtfully. Sherlock hears her inhale as though she's preparing to continue speaking when he stops her, "I had company."

There's a smirk in Mrs. Hudson's voice as she speaks again. "Yes, I heard. You ought to look into a new mattress, Sherlock. If you're going to-"

"Where is he?" he cuts her off.

She turns to look at him. Her hand rests on her hip and her brows furrow. "Well, I haven't a clue, have I?" Once again, she's back to her eggs, or perhaps it's bacon, Sherlock doesn't much care. "It's not as though I was snooping about to see who your gentleman friend was, it's none of my business." She shakes her head, gives a quiet, maternal sort of chuckle beneath her breath. "I hadn't thought _you _would be the sort, but it takes all sorts I reckon."

A confusion wells up in Sherlock. The bathroom door was open when he passed it, as he recalls. He crosses into the sitting room—no, don't be daft. If John were there, Mrs. Hudson would've noticed him. She's elderly, not blind yet. Not deaf, either. And she'd have commented, something about reconciliation or some other lark. But he checks anyway, looks to John's chair expectantly. When he receives nothing in the way of a man, he re-wraps his dressing gown and stalks up the stairs two at a time. His legs ache as he does so, a now confusing reminder of what had transpired just the evening before. Perhaps John was in his old room, was waiting for a conversation about what happened next.

But the room is empty, and smells of dust.

Sherlock shakes his head. He takes a deep breath. He tries to rationalise what he is seeing. He thinks perhaps John has already gotten a jump-start on the moving procession. He's always been the early bird, has always preferred to get an early beginning on his days. So logically, he could've quietly woken and dressed and went to Stepney. He could be there now, packing up his belongings, sating his sister. Yes, of course he is. Sherlock remembers the look in John's face when he'd decided to stay and he thinks that anything else is illogical.

(Wrong.)

He wets his lips as he makes his way back down the stairs. Surely there's a missed phone call or two, a message waiting him. "Don't fret, I'm at Harry's. Picking up my things, see you soon." Sherlock imagines John's voice light and pleasant, tinny through the speaker. He imagines the sound of a footie match on in the background. "Mrs. Hudson," he calls from the last few steps. Sherlock gets no reply, and so he calls for her again. "Mrs. _Hudson, _has my mobile gone off?"

Still nothing. He can hear her humming and he sighs wearily as he makes his way back into the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson," he snaps, and she rounds in that startled fashion of hers once again and stares blankly at him. His voice returns to cool and nonchalant. "My mobile," he repeats, "Have you heard it this morning?"

"I can't say I have, love," she replies, in that warm way she has. Sherlock can't help the tiny half smile—he likes Mrs. Hudson. He may very well love her as the mum he didn't much have in his own. He believes she hasn't heard his phone—she wouldn't have been listening for it, wouldn't have been paying attention. He heads back into the sitting room to find his phone.

He doesn't need to look long.

There's something ominous about the way it sits on his chair. Sherlock knows what it is. He doesn't have to think too hard about why this position of his mobile, the way it lays centred on his chair perfectly, is ominous. It is because it was sat there with intent, a message waiting. He doesn't think the dread that is welling up in his chest is pre-emptive in the least as he goes in for it. His fingers sneak up beneath it and curl around the rectangle, bring it up to look more closely at the screen. His thumb flicks across the screen and it comes to life, and there it is- a single text message.

_I'm sorry._

_ JW_

Sherlock thinks he's forgotten how to breathe. He thinks he might be misreading these words. For moment, he thinks maybe John is apologising for the time wasted, the month of nothingness that had ensued because of him. Sherlock tries to think this for a moment to relieve the heart attack that is surely about to grip him. It doesn't, of course. His heart does race, but the feeling drops off until it feels like it might stop all together. I'm sorry, John says. And though Sherlock wants to believe that it is for the former, he knows the truth. I'm sorry for staying the night. I'm sorry for the sex. I'm sorry for coming round. I'm sorry it wasn't what you assumed.

I'm sorry you're gullible, Sherlock Holmes.

But he's not, he thinks. He is not gullible. Somewhere in his mind, surely he had foreseen this. Surely he had calculated for John to have meant no, that his resolve would last. Surely he hadn't _believed _that John would stay just because of a forceful kiss and a single shag. But the lead weight that sinks into his stomach, the one filled with nausea and ache and that _dread_ that was not pre-emptive at all. And he realises that he had been gullible. Had believed in a one-night stand with a former lover. Had thought, without consequence, that it would make things _right_ once again.

And yet he knew. Had known, somewhere. Hadn't let it surface. So unlike him, so uncharacteristic of him. Nothing like himself to fall into such a trap. I'm sorry, John says, and Sherlock thinks he should be sorry, should have stayed to apologise. Should have said very clearly that when he agreed to stay, it was for the evening and not in the manner in which Sherlock had asked.

Sherlock thinks he should be mad. And he is, sort of. But it's outdone by all the weight that's resting on him—on his shoulders, on his chest, in his stomach. He thinks he might sooner collapse there rather than anything else. He thinks he might reply and doesn't. Mrs. Hudson continues cooking, continues humming. And Sherlock tries to recognise it, tries to pull himself up out of this sudden slump. But the smell of food, once tempting, is now sickening, and he wants to snap at Mrs. Hudson, tell her to fuck off and take her food with her. He wants, he thinks, to hole up and lick his wounds. "Just about ready," Mrs. Hudson says.

"Not hungry," he hears himself reply. It sounds hollow.

"You never are," she replies, and that reminds him of John.

He doesn't think to reply. He thinks he might make a few calls. He thinks he might partake in something that will get his mind back up and running, his seven percent solution. He doesn't make a decision right then. The ability to do so seems to have melted away from him, is left in a puddle where he had stood just moments before.

Sherlock's feet feel heavy as he walks through the kitchen unnoticed. Mrs. Hudson calls out to a closed bedroom door and, much like doors tend to do, gets no reply.

(Idiot.)

How could hopes have gotten so high?

(Fell for it.)

How could it have happened?

(A sap, a fool. Just like the rest of them.)

Idiot. Just like the rest of them.

(This is what happens when emotions are allowed.)

Not a genius, just a sad man, just a man.

(Idiot.)

Fool.

* * *

John feels guilt at first. Of course he does. He really and honestly hadn't meant to do it, hadn't meant to get as involved that evening as he had. He had meant to leave, was prepared to get out and not look back. He had expected himself to be out the door well before the ten minute mark, back in a cab and heading to Stepney with nothing more than a final farewell. Not a kiss, not a shag, not a night spent. He hadn't expected that quiet plea. Please stay, Sherlock had asked. And it was needy and desperate and it _hurt_, and John—weak as he seemed to be—couldn't simply say no. He shouldn't have stayed, he had thought once he had awoken that morning.

But Sherlock had been wrapped about him. Had his arm and leg flung over, had his face tucked into John's neck. He couldn't wake him. Couldn't watch him break again.

It takes John a full two weeks to come to terms with what has happened. He made a mistake, and he remedied it in the only way he knew how. Sherlock had made no attempt to contact him. And so, John moves on. Or he tries. There's a heaviness that stays with him, that follows him around. He finds himself wondering what Sherlock is doing, what he's thinking. He imagines him angry and upset. He imagines him wounded.

That's not Sherlock though. John has to remember that.

What has probably actually happened, John thinks, is that Sherlock has moved on. He has probably gone through some form of mourning the loss. He has said his farewells in whichever way he might. And Sherlock has moved on. John figures he's back on cases, is taking on more. He's not eating, not sleeping, is fully emerged in thoughts and deductions—just as he wants to be, just as he always wanted to be. The only difference now is that there is no John to stop him, to force him back to humanity. John thinks, after all is said and done, that perhaps Sherlock is more content now than he has been in a long while.

And there's a part of John that hurts to hear it. He knows that it's true, somewhere in his heart, but it feels like lead and it makes him only slightly sick to think of. Sherlock will be okay, is already okay. It is John who is still caught up in the worst way.

It isn't until at least a month has passed that John regains himself. Or so he feels. Regains himself enough to feel normal, like things are settling. He works and Harry drags him out every once in a while. Mike Stamford calls him round for tea, for drinks. He talks to strangers at the pubs, he cracks jokes and he laughs. He's even remembered how to be charming, has had invitations from lovely ladies to see their flats. Eventually, he comes to meet a woman called Karen.

Karen is a few months older than he is. She's a few inches shorter and looks quite—basic. But it's a nice basic, a pretty basic. A woman next door sort of basic, appealing in the averageness of her. Dark blonde hair and brown eyes, a round face and a fair build. She laughs when appropriate, she likes to cook. She's a librarian. Karen is the sort of woman that men settle down with eventually, the type to have children and cook meals and plan holidays for the family. And though John is nowhere near ready to settle, not with anyone, he likes her company well enough that he semi-dates her.

It's been two months since John has seen Sherlock Holmes. He thinks, without thinking too hard, that he has finally moved past the guilt and settled for accepting what has happened. Now he is casually seeing Karen, and that evening they'll be going out for drinks. Harry wants to meet her, John tells her no way in Hell. But they're meeting closer to Karen's—a place not far from Bart's. John thinks this is a test, maybe. Not that he thinks Sherlock Holmes will be seen in a pub, but he could very well be within the area.

He doesn't think he'll need to worry too much about it. He thinks the chances that Sherlock will be outside and anywhere near the establishment is slim to none. This eases the small (large) bout of nerves that leap and dance about in his stomach just enough to allow him to smile. Yes, smile. That's a good lad, nice and easy. Good.

The cab ride in passes in mostly silence, aside from a few text messages sent to and from Karen. "Leaving now, be there soon," he sends her, to which she replies, "Running a bit late. Start without xx" He plans to. He knows the pub all right enough that he can decide, before he sets foot inside, where he'll be sitting them. Not at the bar—not very personal. Not too far in the back—bit too intimate for a pub. Somewhere near the middle, he decides. Nice and open, doesn't force any sort of promise from either of them.

It's packed when he goes in though, something he doesn't think to counter in (damn.) This is what he gets, he thinks, for inviting a person to a Uni bar on a Friday evening (piss poor planning.) John decides to head for the bar instead. It doesn't seem as nice as a table, nor will they get the chance to sit, but at least they'll have drinks, and that's the more relevant bit anyway.

It's difficult to get through the crowd. He tries his best to manoeuvre his way through the crowd, but people have been drinking for far longer than anticipated, and no matter how politely he attempts to push his way through, someone is always shouting at the telly just in front of him.

"Excuse me," he tells no one and everyone.

"Pardon," he tries to politely push his way through.

"Sorry, sorry," a meek girl replies at one such instance. She raises her drink well above her head as she turns, trying to keep it from knocking against any of the people around. The voice sounds familiar, the one that stammers out more unnecessary apologies, and then it says "John?"

It takes him a moment to double back and see who knows him by name. She's shorter, with a long, straight ponytail of brown hair and a familiar face. Tonight, she looks just as he always has seen her, with the exception of a missing lab coat. "Molly?" he asks in reply. Familiarity seems to take the both of them over and easy smiles come across their faces.

"How are you? How are things?" he finds himself asking her. She babbles something over the din of noise about what she's been doing, in a vague sort of fashion. More bodies, she says, more autopsies. Nothing quite unlike what she's done in the past—with one exception. "It's funny you should be here, actually," she tells him, and the buoyancy of her voice falters just slightly. John finds her hand resting on his shoulder as she leans up toward his ear. "I've been meaning to find you. I needed to ask you something."

John's brow quirks and she gives him a little pull. There's something on her face, something other than what must be a forced pleasantness. "Just a minute, it won't take long," she assures him. He hasn't even gotten his own drink yet, but he manages to follow Molly Hooper up to the door—that's where she's stopped, because of the drink. Another stammering slew of apologies comes tipping from her mouth, flustered as she attempts to find a place to set the uninteresting lager down. John ends up taking it from her, setting it on the nearest table and gesturing for her to lead the way outside.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, and she doesn't immediately speak.

"How are you?" she asks when she finally does speak. She crosses her arms over her chest—it's just a little cool outside, she must be feeling it, and watches him. He shrugs. How does he answer? He hadn't even sure she'd remembered his name most of the time, but now here she is. "I'm okay," he replies simply. "Are you cold? Do you want my coat?"

"No, no," she says with a dismissive wave, "I'm fine. So what have you been doing?"

This is small talk. John knows that's what this is. There's something else on Molly Hooper's mind, something she's trying to ease her way into. He won't push it. He can't imagine what Molly might be needing with him. "Same old," he says with a shrug. "Work, pub. Not much different with me." He gives a sigh and switches his weight. "Look, Molly, as much as I enjoy catching up, I've got-"

"Hang on," Molly says quickly. "I just-" she pauses with a quiet sigh and what looks like a mental push to continue. "I haven't seen Sherlock in _ages_," she spits out. He sighs and she shakes her hands in front of him. "No, no. I know you lot haven't been—you know—in a while. But I thought maybe you might know if he's—okay, at least." She says this all quickly, like a burst of energy shot out of her. Her arms cross over her chest once again and she looks to him expectantly. John's mouth opens as though he may speak, but nothing seems to come out. He looks around the area, to see if Karen might be walking up. But not yet, so he looks back to Molly.

"I don't—I haven't spoken to him," he says.

"How long ago did you?" she pushes.

"Not for—I don't know. It's been a while."

"He's just—completely dropped off, John," she says, and it sounds almost pleading. "I haven't seen him for _months_, and you and I both know how he used to lurk about the labs."

John doesn't like the way it sounds. He doesn't think Sherlock would be drastic enough to do something like—he shakes the thought from his head physically, looks to Molly once again. She's still looking expectantly. "I don't know, Molly," he tells her honestly. "I don't know. I saw him once, a couple months ago, and that was the last we've spoken."

Her brows knit and she looks him over. She swallows and her mouth begins to open, but then it shuts. She nods. There's a lot going on in Molly Hooper's head, John can see that much, but it looks as though she may not be saying it.

(Suicide?)

No, that's not like him at all.

(He was hurt.)

He doesn't feel like that, doesn't hold on so tightly.

(He wanted to try again.)

It wasn't going to work. It wasn't.

(Wasn't it?)

"Are you concerned?" she finally asks. John looks to her once again and watches her wet her lips. It's compulsive to watch such an action. "About him, I mean? You still care, don't you?" And he wants to tell her that yes, of course he is. That they haven't spoken in a long while and it's secretly killed him. That he will probably always care for Sherlock Holmes, the ultimate exception in every way a person can be. But he doesn't say any of that. Instead he sighs quietly, like the question has been asked over and over again. "He was my best friend," he says finally. "I can't not care, can I?"

"And you haven't spoken to him at all?" she asks.

"We went through a lot," he answers, and he can feel some testy irritation building up. "We went through it, and then it was time to bow out. We couldn't just go on like nothing had happened—and that's just how it had to be. How it has to be."

"But-"

"He's got family, you know," John interrupts. He feels guilty, and upset, and he wonders if he should go to Baker Street and check on 221B. But he won't, and he knows it, and that's even more upsetting than before. "He's got Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson lives just below him, she'd be able to tell you." Molly looks a little taken aback, eyes gone slightly wider, brows knitted just a bit deeper. "You could go round yourself. I'm sure you know the address, easy enough to remember," he goes on. He doesn't realise he's begun speaking with his hands until he's shoving one down the street, in the general direction of where the flat is. He doesn't realise he's been snapping and spitting his answers out until he goes quiet. John takes a deep breath and holds it until he can't, then releases it slowly. He pinches the bridge of his nose and does it again.

"I didn't mean to... _upset _you," Molly says meekly. "I just thought—I figured if _anyone _might know something-"

"No," John says, holding a hand up. "No, it's—it's fine. You're fine." He feels deflated. Low and sad once again. He looks up and he can see Karen coming down the road, her hand tucked in her purse and her head tilted against her mobile. "I'm sorry I couldn't be of any help, Molly," he tells her, and he means it. "But I don't know what he's been up to. It's—it's not my _job _to know any more," he adds.

"Of course. I don't know what I was thinking," she says sheepishly.

"You might want to get in touch with his brother," he suggests.

"Yes, yes. Of course," she agrees. He has a feeling she already has, has tried and failed. He thinks she's already given the rest of those things a go has well. He thinks he might have been a last-ditch effort to find out what's gone on. And he feels—bad. He does. Karen is getting closer and he wants to give Molly some sort of reassurance that Sherlock Holmes is perfectly fine, but he can't seem to do it. So he gives her shoulder a pat and says, "It was nice seeing you, Molly."

"Yeah. Yeah, you too, John," she replies, but it sounds false and it doesn't meet her eyes.

Karen greets him from a few feet away with a wave and he gives her one in return. She looks quite pleased to see him—he feels awful that the feeling isn't reciprocated for the moment. He introduces her to Molly, who smiles and acts genially. When Karen asks how they know each other, Molly offers up that they worked together briefly, a little while back. It's not completely false, and it's better than "I fancy his ex-boyfriend."

John does the gentlemanly thing and opens the pubs door for the both of them. Molly walks through first, quiet and shy as she is, and instantly loses herself back in the crowd. Karen gives John a flirty little wink as she passes him and makes straight for the bar. John wonders if he should tell Karen he'll be back in just a bit, that he's just had something come up that he needs to check on. He resists. He'd said it himself. Caring after Sherlock Holmes is no longer his job, hasn't been for a few months now. Won't be ever again, he reckons.

It doesn't make him feel any better.


	6. Acceptance

**AN:** I highly recommend listening to Erik Satie's Gymnopedies while reading this chapter.

* * *

The rain falls in a quiet pattern. It drops against the streets and trickles in little streams off the awning. It's quiet for a Tuesday afternoon, this John realises as he settles himself inside the dimmed coffee shop. He sits beside the large pane of glass overlooking the road and watches the splash of droplets hitting puddles. There's something playing low and quiet in the speakers, some piece of piano music John doesn't recognise. He thinks it fits though, this sound with this setting. It all makes sense.

He's waiting for a colleague. She'd asked him round for coffee, and he had said why not. After all, it's not as though he was trying to shag her. Even though he and Karen had failed to work out (a bit needy too soon, she ended up being,) he's still quite open to the idea of companionship. He's not completely sworn off of anything—he's just waiting, taking his time.

John's phone makes a noise that seems to disrupt the entire atmosphere and he almost turns around to apologise to the other patrons. The coffee he ordered comes out from behind the counter, the barista bringing it giving him a lazy smile. "Black, yeah?" she asks, and he nods as she sets it down before him. He gives her a quiet thank you, to make up for the sound intrusion, and looks down to his phone:

_Can't make it. Reschedule? _

Of course, of course. Teresa is her name, and she's a bit younger than he is. She leads a busy life—she's a divorcee with two kids and a home she can't quite afford on her salary. He understands, doesn't become perturbed by the idea of her standing him up. After all, he thinks as he slides his phone open, it's not being stood up if she sends him a text.

_Call me when you can, _he replies simply. No malice, no underlying disappointment. An easy acceptance of the facts. He doesn't bother to ask her why she can't make it, it's not entirely his business. They've only seen each other twice outside of this, there's nothing serious. He turns his phone down to vibrate, just in case. No need to interrupt with a grating ringer.

John decides to stay. There's no use in leaving now, and he quite likes the atmosphere. Besides, he's just gotten his coffee, and it smells warm, which would feel nice against the contrasting chill that the window gives him. He sips quietly and contemplates when she might reschedule. He thinks of looking at flats. He thinks of settling into a place that isn't Harry's and smiles to himself at the idea. Not that he doesn't enjoy his sister's company (he doesn't,) but he'd much rather have somewhere of his own. Some little one bedroom place he can do as he likes in. And a bed—that'd be a nice change. His back can't handle much more of that awful sofa.

He's losing himself in thought, almost, when his phone vibrates against the bare wooden table. It's probably Teresa, he reasons. She'll have some sort of reply about when they can meet up again outside of work. And sure enough, he sees her name as his thumb traces along the screen. She writes that they'll have to try for Friday. Maybe dinner, she suggests. He smiles to himself in that knowing way, pleased with the outcome. He'll tell her he'll look at his schedule, see if he's available. It's not often he plays the game, so to speak. Might as well.

John opens his phone to start typing out his response when it vibrates once again—another message comes in. This one—this one causes his head to slow just slightly. It causes something funny to well in his chest, sad and confused and curious all in one go.

A message from Sherlock. The first he's heard from him in months.

He postpones Teresa's message in favour of reading Sherlock's. It seems a silly thing to do, considering the amount of time that has passed between them. He thinks maybe he'd be ready to see him again, maybe. He thinks maybe he'd like to try a case or two, back to how things were well in the beginning, back when they first met. He thinks he'd be ready for that, bored as he is these days. But the message is not another proclamation of necessity, not a 'come-at-once', as he might have hoped. Instead it is a statement.

_I've seen you with her. _

_ SH_

John doesn't have an immediate response. He wonders when, he wonders who, he wonders where. He wonders why, if it was on purpose. He wants to ask all of those questions and more, but he doesn't. Instead, he rethinks and re-examines and decides to go with a declarative—harder to reply to. Perhaps the conversation will lull and Sherlock will bore and off they'll go.

_Happens._

He thinks this is a good way to respond. Well, it's the best he can come up with. And he feels satisfied enough with it to watch it send itself off, and so he won't be concerning himself. He sets his phone down and goes back to his coffee, goes back to his thoughts. The phone vibrates only moments later, and John imagines Sherlock watching his own like a hawk. He imagines him perched in his seat in Baker Street, his mobile sitting on the arm. And he would snatch it up the moment it chirped.

_You look bored._

John rolls his eyes. He shakes his head and lets a quiet exhale escape from between his lips.

_I'm not, I assure you._

And seconds later comes,

_You are._

John huffs and readjusts in his seat. He's trying to think of a good retort, something to cut this conversation off quickly. He doesn't know if such a thing exists, considering the other party, but he tries. Another message comes in before he can reply, from Sherlock once again.

_How is their coffee?_

John feels himself very physically whirl around in his seat. His eyes dart over the other patrons, but he realises this is the wrong move quite quickly. How's the coffee—he's not inside, he's somewhere outside, watching, waiting. Spying? He frowns as he looks out the window, squinting against the now thick sheets of rain and attempting to decide where Sherlock might be hiding. When he receives no visual confirmation of the detective, he goes back to his phone.

_Where are you and what do you want?_

He doesn't get the response he's hoping for.

_Do you love her?_

John shakes his head. He wonders if Sherlock can see it, if he's assuming that it's an answer to his question or simply a resignation. He wonders more and more what the point of this is, can't imagine why Sherlock would be messaging him for no reason. He wets his lips as though he might speak, though he knows he won't, and if he did Sherlock wouldn't hear it.

_I don't think that's something for us to discuss, especially not like this. _

He slides his phone into his pocket and knows that Sherlock will see it. It's his final reply, the one that puts the finality in his statement. He thinks it's good enough, considering he's being watched. He wonders if it's in person, or if it is at the aide of Mycroft. He starts to think it's not the first time. It causes an itch of discomfort to form beneath his skin, and he thinks he might slug back the rest of his coffee and leave.

But he gets stopped well before he picks up his cup.

Sherlock slides into the seat just across from him quietly and unannounced. He doesn't say anything immediately, simply clenches his hands around one another and rests them on the table. He stares unabashedly at John—it takes John a moment to return the gaze.

He looks—awful. Sherlock looks as though he hasn't eaten in a long while. The bags beneath his eyes tell John that he hasn't slept either. His clothes don't fit right, his hair looks mussed. Everything looks worse beneath the drowned look he sports now, having been in the rain as long as he surely had been. He hasn't been caring for himself, John knows. He wonders if it goes beyond that, if the lack of care extends to chemicals. He doesn't ask. He meets Sherlock's eyes—they are the same ice blue he remembers, but they aren't as bright as they may normally be. Sharp, yes. Observant, certainly. But not the same. "What are you doing here?" John asks quietly. He wants to sound authoritative and calm, but his voice deceives him and instead he sounds sombre and tired.

"What do you think I'm doing here?" Sherlock asks. His voice is low and gently rasped as though it's been unused.

"Case?" John wagers facetiously.

"No," Sherlock returns seriously.

John gives the back of his neck a quick rub before letting his hand drop into his lap. He sighs quietly, wearily. He thinks he knows what Sherlock is after. "I don't know why you're-"

"You know exactly why I'm here, John," Sherlock interrupts.

John does know, maybe. But he doesn't say. He shakes his head instead, slowly and without his gaze leaving Sherlock's face. A sigh emerges from Sherlock's lips. He looks to the barista behind the counter and gives her a snap—when she looks round, he calls for a coffee with two sugars and another black. She looks disgruntled as she turns back to the machine, but she appears to be granting his order. "I need to speak with you," he tells John finally.

"We can't-"

"John, please," Sherlock cuts him off again. He looks delicate, and that disturbs John, so he quiets and allows Sherlock this moment. At least here, he knows that he will not be forced against a wall and half-tricked into bed. "You and I," John says after a moment, quietly, "We don't _talk._ You talk, and you want me to listen."

"That's not what I want," Sherlock says.

"Then what do you want?"

"I want—" He stops there. It seems like the words are in his head but not in his mouth yet, and it means he has to pause. John hasn't seen him like this very often. It makes him nervous. "I want to tell you what I've discovered," he goes on after a moment, "About myself, about you, about—about what _happened_ here." The way he says it makes it seem like something genuine. John heaves a great breath from his nose and wets his lips. He doesn't say anything more.

Sherlock doesn't know where to begin, that much seems certain. Perhaps, John thinks, he was expecting more fight. He had probably prepared for it, had his speeches ready for whichever line he knew John would give. Silence is not in the cards, and so he must recalculate. The barista places the two coffees on the table, and Sherlock hands over a tenner and waves her away. He waits until she's back behind her counter to touch the mug, to tap against the ceramic in rhythm. "Do you love her?" he asks again.

"Sherlock," John says, and Sherlock shakes his head. "Just—answer."

John shakes his head. "No," he says with resignation, "I don't love her. I hardly know her."

"Do you love me?"

"This isn't telling me anything."

Sherlock sniffs and his long fingers curl about the mug, spindly and careful. "I want to know where you stand," he explains. "I know where I am. But my discoveries mean nothing if you don't want to hear them." His eyes fall to watch his hand, his fingers. His jaw tenses and he waits, as though preparing to hear an answer he doesn't want. John says nothing in return, as he can't be certain either way. Sherlock wets his lips once again and his breath goes quiet, still. He seems to realise he'll be getting no straight answer from John. He shifts in his seat, straightens what was beginning to become a slouch.

"I could—I could sit here all day and tell you all the things I'd thought the night I asked you round," Sherlock begins. John shifts now, discomfort obvious. Sherlock either doesn't notice it or chooses to ignore it completely. "I could describe to you how the quiets are too quiet, how my head has lost its course. I could tell you how often I've gone back and thought of every moment I didn't—_allow _you to touch me and wonder why I simply didn't. I could tell you everything that happened in my mind while you were away—but you wouldn't understand."

"I still am away," John reminds, an unnecessary stab.

"I could tell you that—that I've changed," Sherlock continues without indicating he had even heard John. "I could tell you that I understand why you left, that you were right to go, how I will never, ever put the work before you. I will never, ever forget the days that are important to you." He looks up then, catches John's line of sight and holds it. "But I'd be saying what you want to hear," he says. "And you would question me, constantly. And every time I made an error, you would become upset, and you'd hold this conversation in your head and kick yourself for returning."

John doesn't say anything, doesn't move, hardly breathes.

"I haven't changed, John," Sherlock says simply. "I am stuck in my ways. I haven't had the practice, nor the drive." He shakes his head slowly, wets his lips again. The steam of his coffee seems to dwindle, a cup gone cold against chilly hands. John watches him, brows furrowing gently. "I _do _understand why you left, why you stayed away, why you have continued to do so. I understand why you came that evening and left that morning. I despise it, but I do understand."

"Then what are you doing here, Sherlock?" John asks. He crosses his arms over his chest and swallows down the small lump forming in his throat. "If nothing has changed, if nothing is _going _to change, then what are _we _ doing here, right now?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath, one that he holds in his chest. His eyes avert back to his mug, his fingers tap gingerly. He leans forward just slightly, rests against his elbows. "I miss you," he says quietly, confessionally. "I miss your tea and your voice, the awful singing in the shower. I miss the way you look seated across from me, or beside me, or around me. I miss your jumpers and your mothering." All of this comes in a quiet rumble beneath his breath, as though the other patrons may hear and ask questions. John is forced to lean forward to hear him clearly. "I have missed you since the evening you left. I will continue to miss you until I cease to exist."

John's head begins a slow shake, almost imperceptible. Sherlock doesn't look up to see it.

"Please come home," Sherlock says quietly.

"I can't," John replies in the same quiet.

"You can," Sherlock retorts.

"If I come back now, what changes?" John enquires. Sherlock looks up to him and John is waiting to lock eyes. "If I come back now, we fall into the same routine, yeah? Where I need you—_always, _and you need me _never." _It hurts to say but he says it, lets it out just as he thinks it. "You want me about because it's easier, because it's routine. You don't miss _me_, Sherlock. You miss what I was—someone to keep you from too much loneliness."

"No," Sherlock disagrees, but John continues.

"I spent—_ages_ waiting for you," he says. "I waited for you before we were together, I waited for you while we were. I waited for you after, even. A call or a text, something to show that I wasn't—" he pauses and takes a breath. "That I wasn't just a knick-knack, a piece of furniture. But you—you never gave me that." He stops again, takes another deep breath. Emotion is getting to him, this conversation, this man. John clears his throat, gives another shake of his head while he tries to straighten himself out. "You never gave me that. You will never give me that."

The room seems to still at that moment. Or maybe it's just John, maybe it's just that everything has gone quiet around the loud thump-thumping of his heart. He watches Sherlock and swallows again, careful not to show the ache he's digging up and putting on display. Here it is, he thinks as he stares, here is everything I never said and always wanted. Here is how to fix it, here is how I come back. But he doesn't say any of that. He watches as Sherlock's hand wriggles its way beneath his lapel, into his coat. He follows that hand until it's holding Sherlock's mobile. He flicks his thumb over the screen once, twice, three times. And then he turns it and sets it upon the table. He slides it toward John slowly and finally, finally takes a sip of his coffee.

Drafts. That's what John is looking at. He's looking at messages never sent, words never shared. John picks up the phone and stares at the screen, tries to focus his eyes so he may see what he's supposed to:

_ You haven't come back yet. I do hope you'll be back soon._

_ You think I meant it, when I told you to leave? You were wrong, you're always wrong._

_ I used your jumpers for your scent. I couldn't sleep without them, I couldn't think without you. I hate you for this._

_ How very mature of you, to take your things and leave without remorse. Couldn't stand to see me? Couldn't speak to me yourself?_

_ You ruined me. _

_ How do people do this? How do people go through life letting people beneath their skin and continuing on to the next? This is awful. Physical wounds are much simpler._

_ Mrs. Hudson made breakfast this morning. I thought it was you. You were the one on the other end of the phone instead. "I'm sorry." For what? You didn't elaborate, you could be sorry for many, many things and all of them would ring true. _

_ You could've stayed. You should've stayed._

_ I can't think without your presence._

_ I can't breathe without you._

_ Please come back._

_ I miss you._

_ I miss you. Come home._

_ I need you._

Chronologically, John can see—from beginning to now—where Sherlock has said what was never said. He sees the gaps in between, where he had thought Sherlock simply wasn't responding. He sees where things he wanted to hear were chucked to the side of the road and left there. He looks back to Sherlock, but Sherlock is watching his own hands again. He swallows down and John can see his throat contracting against the lump. "You think," he says quietly, "That I am missing an idea, an illusion. You believe that so that you may be angry, you may be hurt." He wets his lips and stares into his half drunk mug. "You believe that so moving on becomes easier. In this scenario, bitterness is an enabler. The more upset you are, the simpler it becomes to secure distance."

"Sherlock—"

"Believe what you'd like, John," Sherlock interrupts unabashedly. "But know that not—_once_ was I without distress. It was not the idea of you that had left me, it was you." He sniffs quietly, "And it—_pained _me. In every way a human being can be pained. Believe what you'd like, John," he hears himself repeat and doesn't backtrack to fix. "But know that I am—a wreck without you. There is nothing _good _about me if you aren't _there." _

John can feel a tightness in his chest. He hates it, and this. Things had been getting easier, finally. And now here they are, a mess once again, for what? He lets a low breath escape him and crosses his arms over his chest. "So what do I do?" he asks quietly, "What do I say? How do I know? I'm too old to be mucking about with this—on-again-off-again sort of relationship. And I can't go back to _this_ knowing it's going to end up just as it was." He wets his lips and watches Sherlock's fingers. His eyes rove up to Sherlock's face, and their eyes meet. "You tell me you need me, but you won't change. I'll always feel like a plaything, convenient when nothing else is going on."

"You're more than that," Sherlock says.

"Then how did I spend so much time _not _knowing that?"

"You see but don't observe."

"Not helping your case."

Sherlock shifts in his seat, having slouched once again, and straightens his spine. He tries to look like himself, but it seems like this isn't the time nor the place, so he looks like whoever he does with a keen eye. "I cannot make you the promises you want me to," he says, and John nods and opens his mouth but Sherlock keeps on. "I cannot say that I will always remember to remind you of my affection for you, as I will not always be thinking of it. You were never _furniture, _never a _knick-knack. _You were never a plaything." He looks very serious just then, shoulders squared and jaw set. "You were always the exception. I say you ruined me, but you didn't. I was the one who destroyed my mental fortress. I took a pick-axe and carefully deconstructed everything I had built myself up to be." He sighs, and it stammers carefully, hitches quietly. "_I _ruined me, and I did it willingly, and I would do it again if it meant we could have what we had."

It hits John in a way he hasn't expected. He hasn't prepared for this conversation, not like he thinks Sherlock has. But maybe Sherlock hasn't either. And maybe that's good now, for the moment. John is not expecting to feel that surge of necessity creep up his spine and take him over. "Would you—" he begins, but it comes out just slightly more choked than he wants and so he has to regroup. It catches Sherlock's attention, and those eyes practically burn through John's skull. He swallows and starts again. "Would you _honestly?" _he asks, "Ruin yourself. For me? For—_this?" _

Sherlock swallows and nods quickly and he looks like he might be resisting emotion. "I would," he says, "Over and over again."

"I can't—I can't _do _over and over again, Sherlock," John says quietly.

"I don't _want _over and over again, I want—" Sherlock pauses and lets his hesitation melt away. "I want _this. _Just the once, until I'm no longer ambling on this planet."

"_This _isn't something to take lightly," John adds, and it sounds just like the very first discussion they'd ever had.

"It never—"

"I mean it, Sherlock," John interrupts. There's a worry that sits in his head and on his chest and he thinks he should stop and backtrack now, but he can't. Because no matter how many times he tells himself it's done, it never was. It never has been. It never will be, maybe. John can see as many people as he likes, he can marry the one that seems best and live fifty more years and it will never be done. Because Sherlock Holmes is the exception, and he has given John something that no one else ever had and no one else ever will—and that's himself, all of him, in his entirety, with no censorship or holding back. Sherlock Holmes does not have the Cosmopolitan guide to a happy relationship tucked away in his head, he has himself and how he feels and he is genuine in this respect.

Sherlock Holmes has ruined himself for John Watson, and would ruin himself over and over again if it meant keeping him. That is change, whether Sherlock realises it or not, without jumbling anything about himself. And that, John knows, is all he wants.

"Do you love me?" John asks.

And Sherlock doesn't hesitate as he replies, "Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"It can't be anything else."

A silence. And then,

"Do you love me?" Sherlock asks.

John nods. "I always have."

"Come home," Sherlock says.

"I don't know if I can," John says.

"You want to," Sherlock adds.

"I could," John replies.

"Please come home," Sherlock pleads quietly.

It's here that John knows what he will do. He knows that he will go back to 221b Baker Street, and he will settle into the flat once more. He will watch Sherlock perch on chairs and saw away at his violin and things will return to their seemingly natural way. How else does this conversation end? Sure, he can walk away now. He can remind Sherlock that nothing changes, that things continue on. He can lie and say they'll get over it, that they'll move on eventually. But—he doesn't want to. So he breaths deeply and holds it in his lungs, and then finally—he nods. "Okay," he says.

"Okay," Sherlock repeats back.

"Okay," John says again. This time he scoots his chair outward and makes to stand. Sherlock's brows knit and he stares at John with just the tiniest hint of dread in his eyes. "I've got a busy day ahead of me—if I'm to be moving unexpectedly and all."

A small smile cracks over Sherlock's lips and he feels himself nodding without consent. He, too, scoots his chair out and makes to stand. "She's in—Stepney, if I recall correctly, yes?" Sherlock asks. John nods as the tall, damp mass comes closer toward him. There's a brief hesitation between the two, where permissions are silently granted in the flicker of an eye. But then, there are fingers wrapping in one another, and John is pressing up just enough that the two of them may kiss—nothing too sloppy, too overzealous. Just a meeting of lips, a necessary one, as things morph back into how they once were.

Sherlock leads John from the coffee shop and onto the thankfully rainless street. He stretches out his arm and the first cab they see comes to a smooth stop beside them. They enter the car and John is the one to recite Harry's address. Everything is moving quickly, efficiently, in the exact way that Sherlock operates. He wonders if Harry will be home, if she'll have a fit over this reconciliation. He's at least ninety-five percent certain he doesn't care as Sherlock finds voice enough to babble his stream of consciousness to John's willing ear.

John knows somewhere that there will be times that Sherlock will become sidetracked. He will forget to balance work and health and this relationship, and John will become frustrated with him. But there is a difference, and perhaps it seems like nothing now, but it will be everything in those situations—Sherlock would ruin himself over and over again for John. But John wouldn't want that—no more than he already has. The more one ruins themselves, after all, the less like themselves they become.

And John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes as he is.

* * *

**AN:** There's still an epilogue coming, to make up for some of the emotional distress I've apparently put my readers through. Thank you for reading.


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